


Hallelujah (A badly kept secret and not such a mistake)

by reason_says



Category: Arma Angelus, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Religious, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-12
Updated: 2007-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reason_says/pseuds/reason_says
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Churchverse AU. Pete is a Catholic Deacon and Patrick is an acolyte. Hush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallelujah (A badly kept secret and not such a mistake)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: To the best of my knowledge, this never happened. I am in no way affiliated with any of the real people referenced herein, and I am making no money from this.
> 
> Notes and thanks: Oh gosh. OK, so this was spawned almost a year ago, when Infinity leaked and there was an all-night chat. I FOOLISHLY volunteered to write what was, at the time, a simple, sacrilegious PWP. It has turned into a MONSTER. A WONDERFUL, WONDERFUL MONSTER.
> 
> Co-writing credit goes to [](http://natilathehun.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://natilathehun.livejournal.com/)**natilathehun** , who started the chat and helped me plot this thing to absolute DEATH, so that when I actually started writing it I had a solid framework already set up. I literally could not have done it without her.
> 
> Title by [](http://sixwhitelies.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sixwhitelies.livejournal.com/)**sixwhitelies** , who is clearly deserving of awards.
> 
> Really, though, thank you to everyone who was in on the chat, and everyone who has let me flail and plot and worry at them over the course of a YEAR. You rock. ♥

**Hallelujah (A badly kept secret and not such a mistake)**

  
When asked, Patrick will tell you that he never wanted to move to Jersey in the first place. That he would have much rather stayed in Chicago, thank you, possibly for as long as he lived. That it was all his Dad's fault, him and his new wife, who insisted that they move away from Patrick's mother. When asked, Patrick will tell you all sorts of horrible things about the move and the things that happened afterwards.

When asked to tell the whole truth, he'll tell you that he wouldn't change it for the world.

\---

"Dude, I don't even know why I have to take this stupid class. How hard can it be to carry candles and give bottles to people?"

"Um, why do you have bottles in church?"

Patrick waved his hand. "Ugh, the little things of water and wine, I don't even know. I have to give them to the priest or whatever, but the point is that it's seriously not that hard!"

"Dude, no." Joe shook his head. "You think that, and then one day you'll drop them and you'll wish you'd taken the class. Or, like, you'll set something on fire by brushing a candle against it wrong, and then everyone will die and you'll have to live with that guilt."

Patrick stared.

"What! Dude, I'm just sayin' it could happen. Besides, we're already here, so you might as well go in."

"God, fine, whatever." Patrick took a step toward the door before turning. "You comin' in?"

"What, you don't think I'll burst into flames going through the arch?"

"Trust me, if I don't, you won't. They hate atheists more than Jews, I'm pretty sure."

Joe considered his options. He could sit in the back of a church and watch people being taught what Patrick assured him were obvious things for who knew how long, or he could leave, get caught up with something else, and have to interrupt it when Patrick called to be picked up. He followed Patrick into the church.

Patrick didn't know what Elisa was playing at with all this religion shit, but he was not pleased. It was bad enough that he had to go to Catholic school; did his psycho stepmother really think that him being an acolyte would be a good idea? He shook his head as he slipped into a pew, as far away from the lectern as he could without seeming creepy. At least she hadn't tried to make him join the choir. Yet.

Joe looked around from his vantage point in the very last row. Yeah, just as he and Patrick had predicted, most of these kids went to school with them. Joe didn't automatically blame people for going to Catholic school – he was only there because his zoned high school was completely worthless – but he couldn't trust people who _enjoyed_ it.

He glanced sideways and saw Brendon, in the last pew across the aisle. And yep, there was Ryan, in the very first pew. Joe rolled his eyes. What Brendon saw in that girl was beyond him. She was a prissy bitch who hated Patrick for some abstract reason, so Joe was fairly biased against her. He figured she must have _some_ hidden qualities, though, because Brendon was always hanging around, to the irritation of Ryan's boyfriend. Of course, they were just friends, or so Brendon insisted, but his crush was fairly obvious.

Joe shook his head. Why was he even bothering? He looked up, saw the choir loft hanging over his head like a scaffold, and quickly looked down again. This church was a seriously weird place. Joe was fine with stained glass in moderation, but a double row down the walls was overkill, in his opinion. And they were so creepy! People with snakes or holding bleeding hearts in their hands. Joe shuddered, once, and focused on the front of the room.

Luckily the acolyte class was a lot shorter than Patrick had made it out to be, and he and Joe were out of there within half an hour.

"Did you see Brendon in the back there?"

"Yeah. It's kinda sad, really."

"I know, he's so obvious."

"I'm surprised Ryan puts up with him, honestly. I'd hate having someone hanging around me all the time."

"Ugh, I know. Especially when I knew it wasn't even me they were after."

"Wait, what?" Joe stopped.

Patrick looked at him and burst out laughing. "Holy shit, you think Brendon actually has a crush on Ryan?"

"Well, yeah! What else were we talking about?"

"Oh god, that's great." Patrick's laughter subsided until he could stand up straight. "Brendon totally has the hots for Ryan's boyfriend."

" _Spencer?_ "

"Yeah, him. It's a little pathetic, really."

"What the hell? How do you know?"

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "It's seriously not _obvious_ to you?"

"Apparently not!" Joe started walking again, shaking his head. "What, is this something you gays know about and no one else does?"

Patrick shrugged. "I know about it, I _hope_ Brendon knows about it. I don't know any other gays in this god-awful town, so I can't exactly make you a proof."

Joe shook his head. "I can't- Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously! Is this all we're gonna talk about? Isn't there a show we should be plotting to go to?"

"Speak for yourself, my parents aren't fascists. I can go no matter what."

"I appreciate your sympathy, Trohman, really."

"Any time." Joe clicked the car open and they got in. "What do you think, my place first? Make sure Mom'll cover before you stay over?"

"Yeah, 'cause if I'm supposed to be staying at your house I want to make sure I'm not gonna get turned in for not being there."

"Your parents, man." Joe shook his head.

"Dude."

"Yeah, whatever, it's easier to say 'your parents' than 'your dad and stepmom', and you know it." Joe laughed. "I mean, let's be reasonable here."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Fine. Let's just go, 'kay?"

Joe nodded, and soon they were on their way to plot and scheme Patrick's way into The Best Show Of Their Lives. Little did they know that, halfway across the country, events were being set in motion that would have more effect than a single show could hope to have.

\---

Two weeks later, Patrick burst into Joe's house after church, barely stopping to wave hello to Doctor Trohman as he ran to Joe's room, calling his name frantically.

"Joe! Dude, Joe, you won't believe this, it's amazing. Joe!"

Joe looked up from his computer screen and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Dude. You won't believe this."

"Yeah, you said that. What, exactly…?"

_Father Anderson raised his hands. "As some of you may have noticed, we have a new face on the chancel this week. Deacon Peter Wentz has been transferred to this diocese to complete his training before ordination. I know you'll welcome him into your hearts as we will welcome him into the Church."_

Patrick glanced up from where he was doodling music notes in the margins of the missal, and froze. The man he'd barely even noticed during the processional had stepped forward, smiling brightly, and Patrick thought he might have lost his ability to think.

Then he realised how ridiculous a thought that was, and focused on the man. His vestments were different from Father Anderson's, but Patrick figured that was because he hadn't been ordained yet. And anyway, that was far from the most interesting thing about him. His smile stood out sharply beneath his dark eyes, and his hair looked like it had been hastily combed so that it wasn't swooped across his forehead. Patrick thought he might be in love.

As luck would have it, Deacon Wentz was giving communion on the right side of the aisle, where Patrick and his family were sitting. The church was so old that a rail still separated the chancel (which Patrick couldn't help thinking of as the stage) from the rest of the sanctuary, and the congregation had to kneel at the rail to receive communion. Patrick had never been so grateful for that antiquated custom as he was when he got to kneel in front of Deacon Wentz.

"Dude, dude, dude!" Joe shook his head. "I don't need to hear about that, really."

Patrick smacked his friend's shoulder. "Shut the fuck up, like anything actually happened? Church, remember? That's not the point."

"Lemme guess, the point is that you have a crush on your priest?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "I haven't even _talked_ to him, god. Just think about it, though."

"Think about… what, exactly? At least try to remember I'm not gay, OK? And not a perv, either."

Patrick scoffed.

"Shut up, I'm not! Not as bad as you, anyway, with your kneeling in front of your priest and communion-as-blowjob metaphor." Joe shook his head. "You're messed up, man."

Patrick flopped back on Joe's bed. "Whatever." Suddenly he sat up, wide-eyed and grinning. "Holy shit, I'm an acolyte next week. Yes!" He punched the air.

Joe laughed, turning back to his computer. "You're not the best Catholic in the world, are you?"

"That might be an understatement. What are you doing that's more important than listening to me fawn?" Patrick got off the bed, with effort – why did Joe have a waterbed, seriously? – and peered over Joe's shoulder at the computer screen. Joe, for his part, minimised the iTunes window, and twisted to look at Patrick.

"Nothing, actually. It can wait."

"No, dude, what?" Patrick reached for the mouse, but Joe maximised the window and quit the application before Patrick could see what the big deal was supposed to be. Joe pushed his chair away from the desk, pushing Patrick back in the process.

"So, you wanna work on that song we almost thought about starting last time?"

Patrick heaved a sigh. "Nah, I've gotta go back home. I only got over here 'cause I said I had a book to return."

Joe managed a sympathetic look in the midst of stifling his laughter. "They seriously think you read?"

"Well, I'm not gonna tell them about the words turning into music while I look at them, am I? They'd probably think I'm some kind of freak."

"Hate to break it to you, man, but you _are_ some kind of freak." Joe was then forced to stop talking, in order to dodge the pillow that had been thrown at his head.

\---

The next Sunday, Patrick got to church early. Since he had no car, and the church was just a bit too far away to bike to, this involved rushing his dad and stepmom through breakfast. His dad grumbled, but Elisa wasn't about to discourage what she saw as budding piety in her "godless stepson", so off to church they went.

Patrick rushed up the central passageway, barely stopping to cross himself with holy water and kneel at the door to the sacristy, and leaving his dad and Elisa bewildered by the font.

"I'm pretty sure he's never been this eager for anything that's not music!" Dave looked at Elisa, puzzled, but she set her jaw.

"Maybe Catholic school has finally put the fear of God into that boy," she decided, and headed for their usual pew.

Patrick rifled through the albs in the vestment closet, choosing one that might have been the right size and pulling it on. Just as his head struggled through the cloth and he could actually see, Deacon Wentz came through the door and Patrick froze.

"Hey!" The Deacon extended a hand, and Patrick struggled to get his arms through the sleeves of the blasted alb so he could shake it. "I haven't met you yet, have I? I'm Pete." He caught himself. "Well, I'm Deacon Wentz, I guess, but Pete's easier, right?" Patrick hadn't noticed they were still shaking hands until Pete let go. "And you are--?"

"Oh! Right. Hi, I'm Patrick." Patrick shook his head, straightened his alb, and smirked. "And I'll be your acolyte this morning."

Pete gave him an odd look, which Patrick supposed was reasonable, before smiling again and turning to leave the sacristy. Patrick followed him. Not because he had a crush, not at all. It was just good form to be ready for the processional at least five minutes before it actually started, and it was getting close to that. That was totally the only reason.

After Mass, Pete was obliged to stand around with Father Anderson and greet the parishioners who hadn't met him the week before. Luckily, Elisa always stayed longer than she needed, to talk to the priests, so Pete was able to grab Patrick as he went by after escaping from the alb.

"Hey!" Pete pulled his hand back as soon as Patrick stopped. "You're not in the choir, are you? Only I met them last week and I'm almost sure you weren't there."

Patrick stared. "Um, no. I'm not in the choir. Not even a little bit." He tilted his head. "Why?"

Pete seemed flustered, for some reason. "Oh, nothing, just. Dude, you have the most amazing voice."

Patrick scoffed. "It can't be that good, I've never had lessons or anything."

Pete gaped. "Seriously? That– that's pretty much amazing. You should definitely think about it, is all I'm saying. I'll vouch for you."

Patrick was about to respond in the polite but very definite negative, but Pete interrupted: "And, I mean, I'm taking over as choir director, so they pretty much have to take my word for it."

Patrick managed to keep his eyes from widening, but only with conscious effort. "Yeah, thanks, I'll definitely think about it." He smiled at Pete, then wandered off to find his dad and keep from jumping up and down. He had to save that until he got to Joe's.

\---

Joe didn't even look away from the computer screen as Patrick rushed into his room. "Lemme guess. He kissed you?"

Patrick stopped. "What?" He shook his head. "I only wish. No, but I'm gonna be in the choir!"

Joe turned around slowly. "Is this a good thing?"

"Yes! Because he's the choir director, and he told me I have a great voice!"

Against his better judgment, Joe cracked a smile. "That's great, man. So, what, you're turning into a good little Catholic boy now? Acolyte, choir, unsanctioned relationships with priests… that's all standard, right?"

Patrick debated the relative merits of punching Joe, but decided that he needed someone to talk to more than he needed to hit his only friend in this godforsaken place. He flopped on the bed.

Neither of them spoke for a while, until Joe suddenly turned. "Hey, you know Stephen Lynch, right?"

Patrick raised his head. "Didn't he do that D&D song? I think that's all I've heard."

Joe grinned wickedly and pressed the spacebar on his keyboard. "Tell me if you've heard this one." The song started, just a single guitar, and then…

_Deep in prayer, my cross to bear, I kneel upon the floor.  
Temptations of a Catholic priest aren't easy to ignore._

Patrick whipped his head over, glaring at Joe, who motioned for him to keep listening.

 _Altar boy,_  
Oh, altar boy,  
Confess your sins to me.  
You will find the grace of God inside my rectory.

That was it: Patrick started laughing so hard Joe thought he might be about to choke. He kept laughing through _I'll give him some Communion wine that's spiked with Spanish fly_ , on through to _you can play my organ all night long if you promise never to tell_ , and it wasn't until the gasping at the end was followed by Latin that he stopped laughing, turned bright red, and threw a pillow at Joe.

" _Asshole._ " Patrick shook his head and laughed once, quickly. "I _wish._ "

\---

Time passed, and Patrick began to realise that he really, genuinely loved being in the choir. He'd never tried to sing for any non-shower purpose before, and he was still a little skeptical when Pete complimented him, but at the same time he trusted Pete, and besides, singing was _fun!_ He supposed he should have expected it, considering how much he loved music to begin with, but somehow he'd never made the logical leap.

He did feel a little weird singing songs he didn't believe, but he figured everyone had to start somewhere, right? When he had done his time singing about Jesus and the coming of eternal glory, he could move on to songs that _meant_ something.

Patrick's dad insisted on picking him up from the church himself, rather than letting Joe do it. The only problem with this was that he had a full-time job, which meant that Patrick had to wait hours, sometimes, after practice had ended. He tried to tell his dad that it would be easier for everyone if he could just have a car, but Elisa had put an end to that right away.

Pete was required to stay at the church until everyone had left, so he and Patrick started talking to pass the time. At first they waited in front of the church, but eventually they moved to the basement, as it started getting colder. As it turned out, they had a lot more in common than Patrick would have thought.

"So where are you from, anyway?"

Pete sighed. "Wilmette."

Patrick sat up. "Are you serious? I'm from Glenview!"

Suddenly, Pete was all smiles. "Man, who knew I'd find any Chicagoans out here?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Yeah, take what you can get, I'm pretty sure we're the only ones."

"Why are you here, of all places? I mean, I was assigned, but…"

Patrick leaned against the door. "Ugh, my dad remarried and his new wife is this _horrible_ woman who hated Chicago or something – like that's even possible? I don't know. And she wanted to move back here, and she's pretty much got Dad wrapped around her finger, so here we are." He held off on what he wanted to call Elisa – he was deliberately being good about his language, because he didn't want Pete to get a bad impression of him! Granted it would be a mostly-true impression, but as far as he was concerned that wasn't the point.

After a few weeks, Patrick suggested to his dad that it would be easier if he could just stay at the Church until he had to be home for dinner. He'd talked it over with Pete, who was totally willing to supervise him. He didn't mean for his dad to get the wrong impression of Pete from that conversation, but he was still a little surprise that there was no argument. Didn't his father care at all? He was going to be alone with a priest for several hours every Sunday! But no, all Dave saw was a chance for his son to do his homework, so the arrangement was set up.

As the weeks went on, Patrick began to get the distinct feeling that he wasn't the only one who was interested in starting a relationship. Every week, as Pete placed the communion wafer on Patrick's tongue, Patrick could swear there was a flicker of something that wasn't priestly indulgence. Once, he tested Pete by deliberately lowering his lashes and looking up at him, and he thought Pete's lip might bleed from being bitten so hard.

He stayed platonic at choir practice and afterwards, less because he wanted to freak Pete out than because he wanted to see if they could at least manage to be friends, without any weirdness getting in the way.

What? He may have had the hots for his deacon, but at least he knew it wasn't _normal._

What with spending so much time together and bonding through pining for Chicago, Pete and Patrick became pretty good friends. It surprised both of them, especially Pete, but they went with it.

Patrick wasn't really used to being friends with the people on whom he had crushes. It was kind of nice, actually. He had more to base his crush on than the fact that Pete had an amazing smile! It was a revelation.

Even so, he was almost certain he wasn't imagining the looks Pete occasionally gave him. He wasn't sure Pete knew what he was doing, but he was certain that whatever it was, it was actually happening. More than once he'd absently broken into song and turned just in time to see Pete looking away, his cheeks tinted dark red.

After that he started experimenting, practicing in his room to figure out the extent of his range before going to church and trying different octaves on Pete. Choir didn't allow for much variation, but the basement had surprisingly good acoustics and Patrick soon learned that the lower on the scale he went, the redder Pete's face got.

It got to where Pete would hurriedly interrupt Patrick's singing, usually with anecdotes about the Chicago hardcore scene, but that wasn't such a hardship, really. In part because, hey, hardcore priest, how awesome was that? But largely because Pete's voice had much the same effect on Patrick as he suspected his had on Pete. Patrick tried not to be too obvious about it, but sometimes he'd start singing just to make Pete talk.

"…yeah, so this one time Andy – I told you about Andy, right? Hurley? The vegan straightedge drummer? – he actually missed a show because he was out sabotaging the locks on a livestock truck. He got caught, and the animals got rounded up, but it was still the coolest thing ever."

And god, there was that rasp in Pete's voice, the one that Patrick could only assume was from screaming, because that's what _happens_ as a result of fronting a hardcore band, and before he was fully aware of what he was doing he was scooting closer on the table where they were sitting and kissing Pete.

He came back to himself and started to pull away, but then Pete was kissing him back, he was _kissing him back_ and Patrick never wanted to be anywhere else, ever again, but in this church basement with lousy lighting kissing his priest.

It was just about when his train of thought hit the word _priest_ that Pete jerked back, like he'd somehow heard Patrick's thoughts. He stood up and backed away, panicked. "I'm sorry, Patrick, I'm so sorry, I won't- oh no-"

"Hey." Patrick stood up and followed Pete before he could back out of the room altogether. "Come on. Stop." He was trying so hard to be the calm one, not to run up to Pete and kiss him again, not to scare him away. Pete backed up against the wall and stared at him fearfully, and Patrick knew it was going to take some effort to keep this from getting even more fucked up.

Pete wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but he knew it was wrong and at least half his fault and he had to go to confession as soon as possible, at a different church if he could manage it. Patrick stopped when he was about three feet away, and just stood there. He was just waiting for Pete to calm down, but all Pete could think was that he was going straight to hell for this, it was even worse than the thoughts he made himself not have, and Patrick just _looking_ at him wasn't helping.

"Pete. Come on. It's seriously- " Patrick took a deep breath. "It's not that bad, I promise. Just come on. Step away from the wall. We'll talk, I won't try to jump you again – well, I can't promise that last one, but. Come on." He felt like he was talking Pete down from a ledge, and maybe he was.

Pete knew he had to look ridiculous, insane, but he'd spent a lot of time repressing his issues and suddenly one boy with the voice of an angel had brought them all back to light. He was more than a little freaked out.

Gradually, Patrick was able to get Pete to a table, where they both sat in silence for a while. Pete looked like he was beating himself up inside, but Patrick knew that touching his shoulder to comfort him would probably be a bad idea right now.

Eventually, he stood up and faced Pete. "Is this really that big a deal?"

Pete gaped at him.

"Oh, come on." Patrick grinned. "It's not like we don't both want this, right?"

Pete eyed him warily. "Patrick, what are you saying?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Are you seriously this dense, or do you have to work at it?"

"Patrick! What- you can't be serious!" Pete knew he sounded ridiculous, but he couldn't help it.

Patrick smirked and stepped closer. "Serious about what, exactly? Sinning?" He leaned forward and whispered in Pete's ear before he could jerk his head away, "...I'm very serious about sinning."

Pete was shocked. "But- but-" He darted his eyes around the basement, desperate. "You can't just- it's _wrong!_ "

Patrick clucked his tongue impatiently. "How so? _I_ want to, _you_ want to... explain the problem to me, 'cause I'm just not seeing it."

Pete stood up, and Patrick dodged so that he was the one sitting on the table. "How can- How can you not see a _problem?_ Don't you believe that... _that's_ a sin? That it's wrong?"

"...No. Of course not." Patrick gave Pete a baffled look.

"But... then how can... don't you believe in God?"

"Uh... no?" Patrick frowned, skeptically. "Are you feeling alright? Because, really..."

"You... Oh" Pete shook his head, accepting. "Well, that explains some things, doesn't it?" He laughed bitterly. "You must think I'm so stupid."

"…What? I don't think you're—" Patrick stared, baffled. " _What?_ "

"How could you help it?" Pete shook his head ruefully. "I've just been assuming that, because you're an acolyte, you _must_ believe. But why else would you..." Pete sighed. "Just because you don't believe, doesn't mean it's right. There are _laws_ , Patrick."

Patrick blinked. "Oh, so this is going to be a _problem,_ then?"

"How could it NOT be? You've been... religion is the only reason I even _know_ you, Patrick! And now," he paused, and when he spoke again his voice was sad, "it turns out I don't know you at all."

Patrick glared, his voice harsh. "Right, because it's not like I've told you anything I normally keep to myself, or like we have anything in common outside of the Church, or like I trust you and consider you a friend! No, clearly _my relationship with God_ is the important part here!"

"It _is_ the important part! Your relationship with God is the most important-- You can't just--" Pete stared at Patrick, temporarily speechless. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, pleading. "Patrick, why did you agree to be in the choir, if you don't even believe what you're singing?"

Patrick held Pete's gaze, but his voice was quiet. "...Because you asked me to." He paused, and when he spoke his voice was raised slightly. "Because it's expected." Louder. "Because it gets my parents just that little extra bit off my back." He shook his head, looking frustrated beyond words. "Because you were right and I _love_ it and if I don't sing at Church they will _never let me._ "

He took a deep breath, as though the admission had taken an effort. Then, quietly, almost not really out loud at all: "But mostly because you asked."

Pete stared at Patrick, wide-eyed. "Don't say that, Patrick." His voice grew louder, more desperate. "Don't _say that!_ If you're doing this for me, then you're doing it for the _wrong reasons._ " He sighed, trying to memorise the tile patterns, anything rather than look at Patrick. "I thought we were friends, you know? That we got along so well because we had things in _common._ And if you..." He looked up, shaking his head. "I can't do that. I just can't."

Patrick met Pete's eyes squarely, nearly unflinching. "I thought we were friends, too. But if... if you can't _accept_ that, accept _me_ , than maybe I was wrong about that, too." He glanced away and back, eyes suddenly shuttered, voice fierce. "And if you think I did any of this to _get into your pants,_ Peter Wentz, I know I was."

Pete held Patrick's eyes for a few seconds, before looking down. "I'm a deacon, Patrick. I'm going to be a priest." He looked up sharply. "You have to understand why this would be something of a shock to my system!" He glared slightly, setting his jaw. "I like you. I do. You're a great kid, and an incredible singer. But you've just told me that you're essentially against everything I believe, and I'm not sure how to reconcile that!" Pete shook his head incredulously. "You have to understand, Patrick. I'm not _you._ "

Patrick got up from the table, never looking away from Pete's face. "Which part is such a _shock,_ Pete? That I'm gay? That I'm an athiest?" He narrowed his eyes, the expression on his face not _quite_ a sneer. "Don't flatter yourself, _Father Wentz_ \- I'm not hanging out with you because you have a _nice ass._ " He stopped in front of Pete for a moment, touching his shoulder.

His voice was almost gentle. "No, you're not me." He walked around Pete slowly, dropping his hand, and walked out of the room, looking once over his shoulder. "I don't hide from who I am."

~***~

Pete wasn't normally one for dreams, and definitely not interpreting them, but after Patrick's revelation he might as well have been Joseph.

The first time it happened, he didn't realise for a few minutes afterward that it _had_ been a dream, and not just his thoughts. In the dream, Patrick didn't walk away after he told Pete he was hiding from himself. Instead, he let Pete catch his wrist, and smiled when Pete said, almost desperately, "I don't know how. Teach me?" Patrick touched Pete's cheek and said, "I can't. You have to learn yourself." Then he turned around, but Pete opened his eyes before Patrick could walk away again.

He wrote as much as he could remember in his journal, but he didn't even need to analyse it: it was just the logical conclusion of his thoughts since Patrick left.

The next week, Patrick wasn't in choir practice. Pete kept glancing at the door to the loft, hoping he was just late, but no. He showed up outside the church just in time to get picked up by his parents, looking defiantly at Pete as if he expected to be turned in. Pete just waved him off, his smile turning bitter as the car rounded the corner.

Then Patrick missed the next practice.

And the next.

By that time, Pete had had several more dreams, but he wasn't about to interpret them. In fact, it wasn't until he focused on them that he even realised what they were. They were all the same, at least twice a week. He couldn't see anything, but everything was hotwetdark and he could hear, not-very-far away, a voice reciting Latin. Those were the nights he woke up shaking, from fear and arousal, and took cold showers before the sun was up.

Finally, a dream that didn't feel like he would be sent to hell just for having it. Even so, it bothered him more than any of the others had.

He was sitting in a confessional, on the supplicant's side. He was confessing his impure thoughts, saying he'd been as pure in word and deed as he could manage, but he wanted the impurity so badly he could taste it. In his dream, he said that he'd started dreaming abut sin. He was wringing his hands, head bowed, and only looked up when the confessional door opened. He stepped out and Patrick was there, dressed as he was that day in the church basement, and he held out his hand to Pete, who took it. "I forgive you," Patrick said. "God will forgive you, too." Pete woke up crying, and couldn't stop. All he wrote in his journal that day was that good dreams were worse than nightmares, because they gave you hope for things that you knew were impossible.

The next day, Patrick came to confess.

\---

Patrick got Joe to drive him over after school. Patrick could drive, of course, but Elisa had some idea that giving cars to teenagers encouraged all sort of delinquent behaviour. The fact that Patrick therefore relied on Joe to drive him places appeared to prove her point.

Joe wasn't remotely certain that this whole thing was a good idea, but he tried to be a good friend and be understanding. Besides, Patrick had promised not to moon over Pete for a week if Joe did this for him. Not that Joe expected that to last, but even half an hour without talking about Pete would be better than Patrick's record. He dropped his friend off in front of the church and drove down the street to the comic shop.

Patrick entered the nave, automatically crossing himself as he moved down the side aisle. He entered the confessional and settled into the small space, pressing his fingertips together and trying to convince himself that this wasn't a big deal.

Pete slid the screen back, fighting the same urge he always had, the one to look over. It was none of his business who was confessing. Whoever it was didn't speak right away, and Pete risked a flickering glance. Nothing.

Patrick stared at his fingers, steepled on his knee, for a long moment, before exhaling deliberately and pressing his eyes closed. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he began, voice quiet. "It has been twenty-four days since my last confession." He bit his lip and couldn't quite bring himself to look up, though he was suddenly afraid it might be Father Anderson and not Pete at all.

Pete looked up, startled, staring at the door. Would Patrick notice if he left? Just walked out without asking him to continue? He frowned at his own thoughts, and spoke. "Go on."

Patrick paused, swallowing at the sound of Pete's voice. He had the sudden overwhelming urge to see his face and darted one furtive glance at the screen before forcibly returning his gaze to his hands. "Well, Father... I have lied, and I have told unkind truths. I have been angry and rude and a coward. I have envied, and I have had lustful thoughts. And I have been unforgiving out of pride." He bit his lip again. "I am truly sorry, and I humbly repent."

Pete closed his eyes briefly. He knew he should give Patrick his penance and be done with it, but he couldn't make himself let this go. "What pride was it that led to your lack of forgiveness?"

Patrick's head came up and he looked at the screen directly for the first time. His lips quirked slightly. "I suppose the pride of hurt feelings. I felt I was... opening up and confiding in someone I trust, and he didn't take what I had to say very well." He paused, tilting his head. There was a measure of rueful humor to his voice. "I was... unkind. Not, I feel, ununderstandably, which I realise isn't a word, but still. It's interfered with our friendship, which was never my intent, but I've been too proud to talk to him about it, to offer the proverbial olive branch or what-have-you."

Pete smiled, looking directly at the screen. He nodded at the outline of Patrick's face, all he could see through the screen. "By confessing, you have signified your willingness to repent, to make right what has been put asunder. This is your penance: to put aside your pride and meet with your friend. If what you have said is true, God will open his heart and you will be reconciled." Pete paused, grinning. "And say ten Hail Marys."

Patrick couldn't help it; he wrinkled his nose at Pete's half-obscured face. "Yes, Father." He reached for the door and paused, body half-turned. "Thank you." And then he was gone, walking back out of the church with a far lighter step.

He found Joe leaning both elbows on the counter of the seven-eleven around the corner, a magazine open in front of him, deep in debate with the kid working there about the relative music merits of Thursday. He straightened up when he saw Patrick. "Oh, _finally_. You feeling better now?"

Patrick finally let out the grin that had been pushing at his face since he left the confessional. "Yeah, thanks. A lot."

\---

Pete was distracted through the rest of the confession period, answering by rote and assigning a similar penance to all the supplicants. Luckily, Patrick's confession was among the last of the day.

When his duties were completed, he walked out to his car, unable to keep the smile off his face. The smile changed slightly when he turned a corner and saw Patrick sitting on the hood of his car. He approached him slowly, carefully making his face blank. As he reached the car, however, he allowed himself a grin. "Can I help you, my son?"

"Hello, Father," Patrick smiled back. "I was wondering if my friend Pete wanted to go for a drive"

Pete smiled, truly and happily, and laughed. "I'd like that, Patrick." He unlocked his car. "I'd like that a lot." He opened the driver's door and slid inside, closing the door and opening the window.

Patrick slid off the hood and made a concentrated effort not to beam as broadly as he wanted to. He leaned against the driver's side door, hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie, and mock-scowled at Pete. "What, I can't drive? You don't even know where we're going!"

Pete raised one eyebrow. "Don't you trust me to follow your directions?"

"I dunno, man." Patrick smirked. "You've a tendency to over-think. Just sayin'."

Pete nodded, still grinning. "I deserve that." He opened the door, catching Patrick off-balance, and offered him the keys with a flourish.

Patrick's smirk softened into a real smile. "Thank you." He took the keys and nudged Pete with his shoulder before climbing into the driver's seat. He tossed a bag into the backseat and started poking at the mirrors, adjusting them for himself.

Patrick put the car into drive and pulled out of the church parking lot, flipping on the radio at the first stoplight and drumming against the steering wheel absently.

Pete glanced over and grinned, forcing himself not to look away when Patrick looked back. He had no idea where they were going, but he didn't have anything to do for the rest of the day, and he trusted Patrick. He stopped himself and though about that: he _trusted Patrick._ After two revelations and one apology. Man, he was easy.

Patrick smiled into Pete's eyes for a second before the light changes and he accelerated to merge onto the Parkway, neatly speeding ahead of the person who had been waiting next to them at the light. He grinned, a touch feral.

Pete started to put his hand on Patrick's arm, but drew back, laughing at himself. "Is there a rush?" He was suddenly very aware of the fact that a _sixteen-year-old_ was _driving his car_.

Patrick glanced sideways at Pete and then cut his eyes back to the road to change lanes, passing a slower-moving car. "Why, Pete, you scared?" His smile was challenging.

Pete narrowed his eyes. "Of course not." He sat back, crossing his arms. "Just wondering if you're really up to the pace."

Patrick checked his rearview and settled into the seat. "Of course I am." He didn't actually drop his foot to the floor, but he also did not let up at all. "Are _you_?"

Pete glanced over and grinned suddenly, fiercely. "Always."

Patrick looked at him properly this time, turning his head rather than just cutting his eyes to the side, tilting his head down to look over his glasses and under his lashes. "You're sure you won't regret that?"

Pete swallowed, struck as much by Patrick's expression as by his words, but nodded. "As sure as I can be."

Patrick smiled, somewhere between vicious and sappy, and dropped his foot onto the gas a little further. "OK then."

Pete smiled, looking back at the road. "So, uh." He licked his lips. "Where are we going, anyway?"

Patrick glanced over again, switching lanes long enough to go around another car and then back. "You'll see when we get there, won't you?" It made him smile that it took Pete this long to even _ask_.

Pete laughed quietly. "All right, then." But he started watching the exit signs.

Patrick grinned sideways at Pete. "Don't worry, our exit's coming right up." As if to punctuate his point, he flicked on his blinker and shifted lanes. He even slowed down a bit.

As the 1 mile warning sign for exit 117 approached, he smoothly slowed further and took it, singing along to the radio under his breath.

He went back to drumming on the steering wheel while stopped at yet another light and smiled over at Pete. "Hey...thanks."

Pete looked over, startled. "For what?"

Patrick waved a hand vaguely. "For..." He paused for a moment. "...for coming with."

After all, that's part of what he meant.

Pete nodded, eyes down, but still smiling softly. "You're welcome." He glanced over and smiled properly.

Patrick smiled into his eyes. "...yeah."

The car behind them beeped, jolting him out of his daze, and he fumbled to accelerate through the intersection, blushing.

He focused on the road and didn't look back at Pete, tips of his ears bright red.

Now Pete was really amused. He took the opportunity to look at Patrick properly: something he'd never really let himself do before. He was struck by how _young_ he looked, in contrast to his usual hyper-controlled attitude. Not that the ride had been the best example of that, he thought, and grinned. As twisted as it seemed, he was happy that he had had that effect on Patrick. At least he wouldn't be making a _complete_ fool of himself.

Patrick was silent as he finally turned the car into a near-abandoned parking lot. They'd passed out of town, past a cluster of convinience stores and a number of ridiculously high-end condos and here it was quiet and dark. He turned the key in the ignition. "Uh." He didn't quite look at Pete, still. "...we're here."

Pete looked out the window. "OK." He looked over, willing Patrick to turn. " _Why_ are we here?"

Patrick shrugged one shoulder. "I thought maybe we could. You know. Talk?" He didn't look at Pete. This had seemed such a good idea earlier, and now he wished he could go back and smack himself, because what was he _thinking?_

"Sure," Pete nodded, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Um. So what did you want to talk about?"

Patrick shrugged. "I just thought it might be nice to?" He popped open his door and scrambled around to rummage for his bag in the back seat.

He snagged it and backed out of the car, shrugging it over one shoulder. "I mean, if you'd rather not, that's cool too."

Pete opened the door and shot out. "No! Talking's fine!" He made himself slow down. "Talking's good. We could do that." He shook his head at how moronic he must have sounded, but found he didn't really care all that much.

Patrick stopped a couple of steps down the path, realizing he'd rushed off and left Pete. And, really, dragging him out here and then _abandoning_ him was not good form. He also belatedly clicked the car's keychain to lock it behind them.

Pete laughed, jogging after Patrick. "In a hurry, are we, Stump?"

Patrick shoved his hands into his pockets. "Uhm. Sorry." He glanced up at Pete, head still ducked. He looked... shy. "I'll slow down." He offered a tentative smile, somewhat marred by him biting his lip nervously.

Pete smiled, all teeth and crinkled eyes. "Hey, it's OK. Go as fast as you want. I can catch up."

Patrick looked at him for a moment. "...I don't know about that." He gestured Pete ahead of him. "How about you lead and I can just... go at your pace?"

"But I don't know where we're going." Pete took a few steps down the path anyway. "Is this OK? Should I keep going?"

Patrick nodded. "Why not? I mean, we're here. Where _exactly_ doesn't matter so much."

"All right." Pete was slightly skeptical, and not sure which conversation they were having, but he kept walking, looking back every few feet to make sure Patrick was still following him. As though he might disappear, or turn around. After a while of that, he stopped and turned to face Patrick. "OK, how about here?"

Patrick smiled slightly. "How about over the next rise?" He walked forward and, as he crested it, suddenly plopped down. "Does this work?

Ahead of him, the land sloped gently down to a wide, sandy beach and the endless flat of the water. The moon was reflecting off it, mirror-bright, and casting enough light to more-or-less see by.

Pete fought back the urge to hug Patrick, choosing instead to smile and sit down next to him. "Yeah. Yeah, this is good."

Patrick smiled slightly and rummaged in his bag. "OK, we have a thing of Chips Ahoy - hope you don't mind the chewy kind? -, a bag of grapes, a couple of slightly squished Little Debbies brownies, and, here ya go." He handed Pete a soda, pulled one out for himself, and arranged his other offerings around them. "Bon appetit?"

Pete, smiled, slightly amazed at how often that seemed to be happening today. "Bon appetit." He held up his soda in a toast.

Patrick smiled back, relaxing slightly, and tapped bottles with Pete's. He then ripped open the package of cookies and devoured three of them. It had been hours since his last meal, after all.

Pete smirked. "Hey, save some for me!" He grabbed the cookies, taking two out and putting the package between them. Patrick rolled his eyes but surrendered them willingly. After a minute or two of companionable munching, he glanced sideways at Pete.

"So, uhm. Hi?"

Pete looked over warily. Were they going to talk now? "Hi."

Patrick quirked a rueful grin. "...come here often?"

Pete huffed out a laugh. "No. I haven't really had much time outside the Church since I was transferred. You?"

Patrick smiled. "Sometimes. Used to a lot in the summer. I like it better at night, though. Weeknights are the best, but of course I don't get out here during the school year." He shrugged and popped a grape into his mouth. "The parents would flip."

He paused reflectively. "It's just so quiet. Jersey doesn't get a lot of quiet, you know? Sometimes I miss the midwest."

Pete sighed. "Yeah, So do I." He looked out over the water and grinned. "At least we have that in common."

Patrick rolled his eyes affectionately and pushed Pete's shoulder. "Jackass."

"Well, yeah," Pete laughed, grinning at Patrick. "How long have you known me?" He shook his head, still chuckling, and leaned sideways, laying his head on Patrick's shoulder.

Patrick inhaled sharply and stiffened, looking at Pete's forehead with wide eyes.

Pete turned his head to look up at Patrick. "What's wrong?"

Patrick snapped his eyes up and stared out over the water. "Nothing, sorry." He willed himself to relax, and tried to ignore the way his pulse had just sped up.

Pete lifted his head and twisted himself until he was kneeling, facing Patrick. He put his hand on Patrick's shoulder, shaking lightly. "Hey, come on. Look at me."

Patrick's mouth started to twist, the barest of movements, before he got it back under control. He turned his head to face Pete and his face was unreadable. "Yeah?"

Pete didn't remove his hand from Patrick's shoulder. He smiled softly before leaning forward and gently pressing his lips to Patrick's.

Patrick recoiled, face stricken. What the _hell?_

Pete pulled back, hurt. He looked at Patrick for a level second, searching his eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought-- never mind. I'm sorry. I'll go." He struggled to stand, not even thinking about the fact they came in the _same car_.

Patrick was still sitting there, eyes the size of saucers. His face wasn't blank anymore, but Pete still couldn't read it - there were so many emotions tangled that even Patrick wasn't sure what he was feeling. He stared at Pete.

"Patrick?" Pete was genuinely worried now. He crouched down in front of Patrick, carefully staying far enough away not to look threatening, should Patrick decide to completely freak. He peered into Patrick's eyes. "Patrick? Say something."

Patrick blinked at him. "You...kissed me." A confused line formed between his brows.

Pete nodded slowly, still confused. "I did, yeah. I-- I didn't think you'd--" He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry.

Patrick looked incredulous. "... _Why_ did you kiss me?"

Pete widened his eyes, trying not to laugh from frustration. "Why?" He huffed a breath, shaking his head slightly. "Wh- Because I like you!" He looked desperate, terrified that Patrick would leave again, and this time no confession would fix things.

Patrick shook his head slowly, not denying so much as incredulous. "I... You... _Huh?_ "

"I _like you_ , Patrick." Pete smiled nervously. "I like you a lot."

He shook his head. "I know I went about this in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. But-" He sighed, "I thought you- Why is this a problem?"

Patrick shook his head, trying to clear it. He felt... stupid. Slow. "But you--" He cut himself off.

"I thought you made it pretty clear that this was not happening." His voice was careful, precise.

Pete looked down, and arranged himself so he was actually sitting. He had a feeling this was going to take a while. "I thought this was the worst thing I could do." He hastened to assure Patrick, "Not you! Just- I'm a deacon. And this... these feelings... they're pretty much frowned upon." He chuckled darkly. "But then I realised something, in those three weeks. If God can forgive this, and I believe he can," He paused, taking a deep breath, "then how is it wrong?"

At that, Patrick just looked skeptical. "OK, I may not be the world's best Catholic boy, but even _I_ know that's not how it works."

Pete laughed softly. "I know. That's completely ridiculous, isn't it?" His smile dropped. "I don't know what to say! I just- I've prayed over this, Patrick. I've prayed _so much._ And last night, God gave me a feeling that you would forgive me, and so would He." He grinned sadly. "And you're here, so I have to believe He's telling the truth about the rest of it.

"And maybe that's not how it works, but I can't think of any other reason why I feel this way."

Patrick looked at him seriously. "Pete...why did you decide to enter the clergy?" The question was bordering on gentle, as if he expected Pete to balk at answering it.

Pete hung his head. "I was scared." He shook his head, eyes still locked on the ground. "I started looking at one of my friends. Like, looking." He glanced up, though he knew Patrick knew what he meant. "And it terrified me. It was wrong, and dirty, and would land me on a fiery desert in hell, and I wanted nothing to do with it." He held up one hand, studying it as though it held the answers to all his questions. "I was religious anyway, in case you couldn't tell," he chuckled, "and I thought the seminary would help get rid of those feelings. These feelings. And I thought it was working, until I met you."

Patrick nodded silently. He was quiet for a long time. Then, almost tentatively, "...you must resent the hell out of me for messing that up."

"No!" Pete snapped his head up and stared at Patrick, wide-eyed. "No, Patrick, you didn't mess anything up!" He paused, frowning. "How could it possibly be your fault, anyway?" He shook his head, moving on. "If I hadn't come here, if you hadn't been here, I'd still be pretending to be 'cured'!" He didn't actually make the air-quotes, but they were evident in his tone. "Patrick." He smiled, hoping the truth would come across in his words, "You've saved me."

Patrick smiled, slow and a touch sad. "I dunno, Pete. I'm not much for salvation."

Pete's face fell. "Patrick--

"I just- look, I'm not good at speaking off the cuff like this, and this is all messed up. I don't expect you to be my saviour, Patrick. I wouldn't to that to you. Just. Please." He reached out a hand, but pulled it back. "Let me kiss you."

"Pete." Patrick looked at him seriously, legs drawn up with his arms around them. He propped his chin in one hand. "You have to understand, I'm not. This isn't." He paused, considered, but didn't look away from Pete's face. "...god, this could get so, so fucked up." He shook his head with a cynical laugh.

Pete looked down. "I know." He laughed bitterly. "It's pretty fucked up already, isn't it? I mean... I know the problems. I do. And I don't know how to deal with all of them. But," he looked up, eyes blazing, "I do know that I want to try." He tried not to wipe his eyes, because no tears had fallen. "Can we at least try?"

Patrick dropped his chin onto his knee, clasping his elbows. He murmured, "My god, my parents will kill me," almost disbelievingly with a laugh and a shake of his head, and then he looked at Pete and just like that he was moving, pushing Pete back against the grass and kissing him, intense and thorough and singlemindedly, as though the rest of the world has faded completely and all he was doing was focusing in on the point of contact between him and Pete.

Patrick kissed him like he was branding him, like he wanted to map out every inch of what made Pete Pete, every memory and brainwave and synapse. He kissed him like he wanted to burn him from the inside out, like he could press himself into the back of Pete's eyelids by sheer force of will.

He'd heard of first kisses being like coming home, like finding yourself after wandering lost. This was more like a siege, a flood, Patrick crashing over him and into him and washing him away.

Patrick kissed him like Pete was _his_ , and didn't break away until his lungs were burning and his skin felt aflame. Even then, Patrick only backed off a few inches, enough to breathe and grin down at Pete. He didn't move off of Pete, leaving them pressed together, intertwined.

Pete stared up at Patrick, willing himself not to blink, not to turn his head. Not to do anything to disrupt this. One thing he couldn't stop himself from doing, however, was smiling. He tried to catch his breath, scattered thoughts running through his mind, but none were good enough for this. He was happier than he'd been in weeks, months, years. Since his first inspiration to enter seminary, he'd been fighting with himself, and now. Now. In one day, he'd gone from feeling like the worst person on the planet to feeling like he could reach up and grab the stars.

"Patrick," he panted, still smiling, "I..." he trailed off, and hoped Patrick knew.

Patrick's grin softened into a real smile, one touched with wonder at the edges. He pressed his forehead into Pete's, not certain when he had disposed of his glasses. "...hey." Soft, affectionate.

Pete's smile softened. Not dimming, but changing. He could feel his heart racing, feeling like it was about to burst, but he didn't move. "Hey."

Patrick shifted, crossing an arm across Pete's chest to support himself, and stroked his thumb over one of Pete's cheekbones. He touched his brow, his chin, his lip, eyes following his thumb. He lingered on Pete's lower lip, smoothing his thumb across it again and again, gentle and light. "...is this OK?"

Pete's eyes glazed over slightly, hazy from pure sensation. His breathing came more shallowly, and he fought to focus on Patrick. "It's you. Everything's OK."

Patrick laughed, low and husky. "Yeah?" It was a breath, not really a question, as he slid his hand to cup Pete's jaw and dipped his head to lick the same path over Pete's lip before sucking it into his mouth to worry at ever so gently.

Pete flicked his tongue out, over Patrick's lip, and pulled away. "Shouldn't-" he struggled to focus on something, anything other than the way Patrick felt on top of him. "Shouldn't you be getting home? Your parents-"

Patrick blinked at him. "You want to talk about my _parents?_ "

Pete closed his eyes. "Of course not. But won't they be worried? With everything you've told me about them, I'm surprised you're even allowed out this-- shit." He tried to glance at his watch, but the way his arms were wrapped around Patrick sort of foiled that plan. "How late is it?"

Patrick hid his smile against Pete's neck, feeling inordinately pleased that Pete was so worried and yet apparently not willing to let go. "Mmm. Don't worry so much - they think I'm at Joe's." He rubbed his nose behind Pete's ear. "...which, OK, I should probably give him a call." He considered this, flicking his tongue out to taste Pete's earlobe.

Pete gasped, arching up involuntarily. "You-" His mind snapped back into place, and he tried to sit up. The fact that Patrick was entirely on top of him and thus weighing him down put an end to that plan, but he felt the point was that he tried. "You told them you were at Joe's? What if they call him?" He stopped, thinking. "And won't Joe's parents wonder where you are?"

Patrick shifted balance atop him, dropping one arm next to Pete's head. He tugged at his ear with his teeth and made a soft, frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Your priorities are _so fucked up._ "

Pete made a noise that could probably not be represented with letters, even if he felt like trying. "Patrick," he gasped, "Patrick, stop."

Patrick sighed, defeated, and sat up, straddling Pete. " _Fine_. I told them I was at Joe's because originally I was _planning_ to be at Joe's. Joe's probably told his parents that I have a _date_ or something. It's _fine_." He glared at Pete through narrowed eyes. "OK? Any other _burning_ questions?"

"Just one." Pete moved his hands to Patrick's hips, gripping them lightly. "If you're not at home, and you're not at Joe's," he began running his hand up and down Patrick's side, "Where are you gonna spend the night?"

Patrick exhaled as Pete's hands settled on his hips. He shivered and squirmed slightly. "Mmmm... uhm. I..." His eyes fluttered slightly. "We'll work it out?"

Ever-so-casually, Pete moved his hands up to Patrick's arms. "Just for now." He pulled Patrick down again, so they were nose to nose. "But I think we should probably go somewhere that's not the beach. It's getting colder." He pressed a quick kiss to Patrick's lips before struggling (and succeeding this time, he'd have you know) to sit up.

"Meep!" Patrick grabbed at Pete's shoulder as he was unceremoniously dumped into Pete's lap.

Pete laughed, turning slightly and curling one arm around Patrick's shoulder. "We're going somewhere else, Patrick. I don't really care where, as long as it's not outside."

Patrick frowned. "But it's _nice_ here! It's pretty, it's quiet, there are no people, and I have you." He pouted and resettled his legs slightly, still around Pete's waist.

"Yes, but it's also outside, at night, and getting colder." Pete rested his forehead against Patrick's. "And the quiet probably won't last long anyway."

Patrick shivered involuntarily at that, pressing closer to Pete. "God, Pete."

Pete laughed, low in his throat. "I guess that's not helping, huh?"

Patrick gasped and shook his head wildly. "Not really, no." He licked his lips and kissed Pete again, helplessly, not a concious decision so much as a compulsion, something he just had to do.

Pete kissed back frantically, somehow finding the presence of mind to slip one hand under Patrick's shirt, tracing patterns on his back. He broke away, panting. "Still, we should-" was all he managed to get out before crushing his mouth to Patrick's again.

Patrick's fingers tightened on Pete's shoulder and he ground against Pete helplessly, kissing frantically as he made tiny little wanting noises in the back of his throat. His other hand crept to the back of Pete's neck.

Pete fought not to moan, and moved his hand to the hem of Patrick's shirt. He'd just begun pulling when Patrick's phone started ringing.

It took a minute for Patrick to notice, and when he did he broke away from kissing Pete with a gasp, leaning back and groping in the dark for his bag. He found his glasses first and jammed them on, blinking owlishly.

Wow. Pete was definitely not expecting the tremor that ran through him at the sight of Patrick with his glasses back on. He cleared his throat and tried to focus on the sand, the grass, anything to stop him telling Patrick to ignore the phone and pulling him back down.

The bag was just out of Patrick's reach, on the other side of the discarded feast, so he tumbled backwards off Pete's lap and stretched out to grab at it with his fingertips. The phone had stopped ringing, but he fished it out anyway and flipped it open, frowning at it.

Pete looked quizzically at Patrick. "What is it?"

Patrick poked at the phone, frowning slightly as he tried to concentrate on it. "Joe. Need to let him know what's up."

And suddenly, Pete was paying attention. "Weren't you supposed to call him--" he squinted at his watch, then realised he had never looked at it in the first place "A while ago?"

Patrick shrugged and poked his phone again, holding it up to his ear and listening to it ring.

On the third ring, Joe picked up. "I was leaving you a voicemail. The hell, jackass?"

Patrick ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it where they'd mussed it, and rolled his eyes. "Sorry, I hadn't realized how late it had gotten." He poked Pete with his foot, grinning at him.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry." Pause. "I know, I know." Pause. "Actually, no, I think I'll be staying out; won't bug your parents by getting in late!" Pause. "Yeah, I'm sure! What are you, my mom?" Pause. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll see you tomorrow. Tell your mom she's awesome, okay?"

He hung up the phone, rolling his eyes and grinning. "He's a dumbass. Anyway, all set." He sat up and looked at Pete, his eyes darkening and his smile taking on a wicked edge.

Pete could feel his heart racing, but he couldn't seem to care enough to try to slow it down. "Patrick," he started, warningly, "We're not doing this here."

Patrick licked his lips. "Not doing what, precisely?"

Now it was Pete whose eyes darkened. His mouth twitched, almost-but-not-quite a smirk. "We are not having sex outside."

Patrick's eyes flared and narrowed to slits, and he unconsciously leaned forward.

Pete licked his lips, but shook his head and struggled to his feet. His breathing was heavy, and he knew that if they didn't leave immediately they never would.

Patrick bit his lip and made an aborted motion to reach for him.  
"I..." He blinked a few times, trying to make his brain work on a level above pure want. "Uhm. Right. OK." He half-turned to grab his bag and shoved the snacks into it as quickly as possibly before standing up shakily.

Pete, who was trying desperately not to stare at Patrick's mouth, cleared his throat. "Right. Yes." He swallowed hard and struggled to control his breathing. He nodded back at the path. "We should, uh..."

Patrick nodded jerkily and turned hurriedly, walking back the way they came, away from the ocean and away from Pete.

Pete felt a stab of panic and jogged after Patrick until he caught up, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey." He looked worriedly at Patrick. "It's not like we have to do this now. I mean, if you-"

Patrick turned towards him in a rush, hands clenching and unclenching on the strap thrown over his shoulder. "Peter Wentz," he began, voice low and tight, "if you do not stop touching me and take a step back, this whole 'leaving' thing is going to be over very, very quickly."

"OK!" Pete hurriedly stepped back, holding up his hands. After a beat, during which he was sure his eyes darkened impossibly and he swore his heart was about to explode, he turned down the path and began walking. _Quickly._

Patrick stared at him for a long moment, licking his lips with a tongue suddenly gone dry, before he set off after him, rushing up behind Pete to overtake him.

He kept his voice low. "...Race you to the car."

He cheated, touching a hand to Pete's spine, just above his belt, and then took off before Pete had a chance to respond.

His bag bounced against his back as he ran, but he ignored it, trying to focus on the air rushing past him and his feet hitting the ground rather than the way his mouth was dry and his fingertips tingled and he was still unfomfortably hard.

Pete shivered, but took off after Patrick as soon as he could make his brain send signals somewhere that wasn't his cock. He hadn't played soccer in two years, but he was still faster than Patrick, and overtook him largely by forcing himself not to get distracted by the way Patrick's ass looked when he was running.

When Pete got to the car, he reached for the driver's-side door and his keys simultaneously. He patted frantically at his pockets for a moment, before realising that he never got them back from Patrick. He looked at Patrick as he jogged up. "Do you have my keys?"

Patrick blinked at him blankly. He'd calmed down slightly from the run, enough to make his brain work. "Uhm..." He checked his own pockets and pulled the keys out of his hoodie. "Yeah. No worries."

Pete sighed, relieved. "Oh, good." He gestured vaguely toward the car. "Um. Do-- Should I?"

Patrick raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you think you can drive?" He wasn't passing judgment – he wasn't certain _he_ should drive - but it seemed a legitimate question, under the circumstances.

Pete huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, you're probably right." He stood aside to let Patrick get at the door. "Where are we even going?"

Patrick carefully clicked the keys to unlock, and opened the door firmly. "I am planning to drive back that way," he waved a hand, "until we find a motel. Then we are going to rent a room."

He looked at Pete and chuckled. "But first, you are going to change out of that collar."

Pete looked down, startled, though of course he couldn't see it. "Patrick," suddenly he wasn't smiling, "are we really going to do this?" He hastened to reassure him. "Not that I don't want to! Just. This is so fucked up."

He looked at Patrick desperately, wanting to hear something, anything to tell him that this was OK.

Patrick rolled his eyes and got in the car, shutting the door with a bang.  
"If you back out on me now, I may actually kill you," he said conversationally, and started the engine.

"OK, jeez!" Pete laughed and widened his eyes. "Pop the trunk, would you? My real clothes are in there."

Patrick smiled, sweetness with a vicious edge, and did so.

Pete twitched a smile and ducked behind the open trunk, taking off his collar as he did so. Once he was safely hidden, he untucked and unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off and tossing it carelessly in the trunk. He peeled off his undershirt and pulled out a black hoodie, slipping it on before deciding his trousers could wait and closing the trunk. He moved to the passenger door and slid in.

Patrick had turned on the radio and was singing along under his breath when Pete got in the car. He glanced over, blatantly checking Pete out, before refocusing and pulling out of the parking lot, heading back the way they came. They drove in silence for a while, lights passing outside their windows. Patrick continued to sing quietly, barely audible, and settled into driving. After a while, he reached over and laid his hand on Pete's thigh, stroking slightly, and smiled at him out of the corner of his eye.

Pete smiled back, but raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "Do you want to crash the car? Because that's where you're headed if you keep doing that."

Patrick raised an eyebrow at Pete, in between glances at the road. "Oh yeah? I think I'm doing just fine, thanks."

"You won't be saying that if I jump you while the car's still moving."

Patrick's hand stilled, then he pulled it away regretfully. "...no, possibly not."

They passed the rest of the drive in silence. Patrick turned off at the first motel sign flashing 'vacancy' that they passed. He pulled in front of the office. "You gonna handle this?" Pete pretty much had to – it wasn't as though Patrick could rent a room.

Pete nodded, quickly leaning over and kissing Patrick before sliding out of the car. He made a beeline for the desk and somehow managed to get a room with a minimum of nerves. He got nervous when the kid at the desk looked out at Patrick sitting in the car, hoodie pulled up, but he didn't say anything and the kid didn't either, just handed him his key in silence.

Pete got back in the car, told Patrick the room number (124), and sat in silence as they pulled into the parking space. Patrick smiled over at him as he parked and turned off the car, grabbing his bag again and climbing out.

Pete shook his head to clear it, and smiled. He followed Patrick to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside the room. No sooner had the door closed than he turned to Patrick and pressed him against it, kissing him desperately.

"Pete, I--" Patrick cut off at the feel of Pete pushing him against the door, the wood unyielding underneath his shoulderblades, even before Pete's mouth found his. He grabbed at Pete desperately.

Pete moved one hand to Patrick's ass, the other still clutching his shoulder. He groaned into Patrick's mouth and gound against him, a little surprised at how instinctive his actions seemed to be. He'd rarely done this with girls, even, and _never_ with a guy, but his body seemed perfectly fine with that.

Patrick dragged one hand down Pete's shoulderblade, pressing hard through the thick fabric of Pete's hoodie. His own hood had fallen back by then, and he broke the kiss to lean his head back against the door, gasping, trying to catch his breath. He couldn't seem to quite get enough air, feeling lightheaded and tingly all over. He rolled his hips forward against Pete's, helplessly craving more contact.

Pete stared wide-eyed at Patrick, breathing heavily. "If you would-" he gasped, "if you'd take that hoodie off, this would be moving a lot faster."

Patrick blinked at Pete for a second than pushed at his shoulders, trying to get enough space to yank it over his head. Pete backed away, watching as more of Patrick's skin was revealed and god, he didn't think it was possible to be harder than he already was, but that did it.

Patrick pulled his arms out of the hoodie and tossed it towards the chair on the other side of the tv. He bit at his lip and glanced down, toeing off his sneakers and kicking them in the same direction. He paused, hands at the hem of his tshirt, and looked up at Pete through his lashes, shyly but with smoldering eyes.

Pete swallowed, licking his lips. "God, Patrick." He silently apologised for the word, noting how shaky his voice had gotten. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

Patrick smiled at that, quick and bright and blinding. "Yeah?"

Pete nodded, breathless, all but panting. "This is insane. I shouldn't want you this much." He quirked a grin and started on his own hoodie. "But I do. And I don't really mind."

Patrick nodded frantically. "I do, I mean, I know, I mean.... God. Yes." He was watching Pete, couldn't tear his eyes away, and his mouth went dry anew as Pete's abs were revealed. "Jesus."

Pete paused just before the hoodie reached his collarbone, taking a deep breath and peeling it off in one motion. He stood motionless, his first instinct to cover the thorns, though he knew it would be futile.

Patrick took a step forward before he realized he was moving, eyes fixed on the tattoo ringing Pete's neck. "...you have a tattoo." He sounded completely stupid and knew it, but it was the best he could do.

"Yeah." Pete dropped his eyes to the floor. "It's, um. It's supposed to be like the crown of thorns." He looked carefully up at Patrick. "Does it bother you?"

Patrick took another step forward, still not looking away. "It..." He swallowed. He'd moved even closer, crowding Pete back against the bed. "No, I wouldn't say that." And he licked it, dipping his head to taste Pete's collar bone, dragging his tongue down and around, following the necklace of thorns.

Pete gasped, then let out a shuddering breath. "Oh- OK, then." He put his hands on Patrick's shoulders and pushed him back. "Patrick, Patrick, wait." He was panting by then, and shook his head. "If you want this to last at all, you're gonna have to--"

Patrick smoothed his hands over Pete's stomach, shivering at the feel of his abs, and ran them up his side. He had to tear his eyes up to meet Pete's. "...you want me to stop _again?_ "

"No!" Pete shook his head frantically. "Just... slow down. Do you realise how long it's been since I've done this?"

Patrick raised an eyebrow at him. "You do realize I've never done this before? And you keep telling me to _wait_. What the _hell_ , man?" He fanned his fingers out along Pete's ribs, one thumb brushing over his nipple. "I really, really do not want to stop." His voice was light, almost amused - conversational, but the look he gave Pete was not. It was almost crackling with energy, frustration struggling against desire and losing.

"I don't want to stop either!" Pete stepped forward a half-mark, pressing himself further against Patrick. "Trust me," he breathed, softly, "I don't want to stop." He brushed a hand across Patrick's cheek before moving it to his hip. He touched his forehead to Patrick's. "I'm sorry. I know I'd be freaking if you were the one acting like this, and-" he licked his lips. "God, I just want you so much. And I don't want to come in my pants before I even get to see you shirtless." He tugged, lightly but insistently, at Patrick's shirt.

Patrick glared at him, yanking his shirt over his head and tossing it behind him. "There, better?" He was already pressing up against Pete, hands pressing into his back, mouth descending onto his neck.

"God, yes!" Pete groaned, throwing his head back and grinding against Patrick. "I won't- won't sto-, oh God!" He was too distracted to note, let alone regulate, his use of the word.

Patrick bit at Pete's neck, digging his fingers into Pete's back and sliding his fingertips under his waistband at the base of his spine. He shifted so Pete's leg was in between his and ground against him, hissing at the friction.

Pete hissed and stumbled backward, bumping into the bed. The movement created enough space between them for Pete to fumble at the button on Patrick's jeans. The task was made more difficult than it should have been by the fact that Pete's other hand was still desperately clutching Patrick's shoulder.

Patrick grinned wildly and took the opportunity to try to undo Pete's belt. After a second in which he realized it was backwards for him, he gave up and unbuttoned his own jeans. "Swap?"

Pete nodded frantically and undid his belt, pulling it off and tossing it to the side.

Patrick was already moving closer, pressing Pete up against the bed and fumbling with his zipper. He finally for it open and slid his hand into Pete's pants, wrapping his free hand around Pete's waist, and running his fingertips over Pete's cock.  
Pete gasped and arched into Patrick's hand. "Please," he whispered, burying his head in Patrick's neck. "God, please."

Patrick chuckled and shifted, gently running his hand over Pete's cock, exploring the shape and feel, the differences and similarities to his own. It was hot, it was so fucking hot, and he couldn't believe he was getting to do this, to touch him like this, to touch Pete-- He ground against Pete's hip helplessly, desperately, whimpering.

Pete groaned and thrust into Patrick's hand, wanting more - more contact, more friction, harder, faster, just MORE. "Patrick," he moaned.

With effort, Patrick forced himself to stop, to take his hand away and step back. Deep breaths, that was the key. Deep breaths and not staring at Pete's mouth and getting his jeans off as quickly as possible. Stopping was not the goal - getting so that they weren't actually standing up was.

Luckily Pete got the picture, and was out of his trousers almost before Patrick was. His hand stalled at the waist of his boxers, but Patrick pulled his own off and pushed Pete backwards onto the bed, and then he didn't have much choice. Not that he was actually complaining.

They lay facing each other for a beat, before Pete bit his lip. "Patrick, I– I don't actually–"

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Thought you said you'd done this before."

"Not _this!_ " Pete laughed incredulously. "What part of 'insanely closeted' didn't you get?" He sighed. "Only once at all, and never like this. And that wasn't really the best, either. Basically I don't know what the hell I'm doing." He winced at the word, but realised that if he was actually going through with this a few words weren't going to hurt his case even more.

Patrick wasn't as surprised as he thought he should be, but he was at least glad he wasn't the only one who had no idea what to do next. Or, not really, because that meant he had no idea what was going to _happen_ next, but. But then he was kissing Pete again and he didn't really care what happened next as long as it included a lot more of that.

And then Pete was breaking the kiss, listing himself up until he was hovering over Patrick, and oh, OK, maybe that was an acceptable future, too. Patrick felt his jaw go slack, his breath quicken, and he arched up against Pete.

The look in Patrick's eyes was almost more than Pete could bear, but he took a deep breath and slid down the bed before his mind could change itself for him and make him run away.

He ran his tongue up the underside of Patrick's cock, focusing on the guttural sounds Patrick was making and noting absently that they could probably rival his singing, if the two could happen simultaneously. He flicked his tongue across the head before opening his mouth and taking Patrick in, and oh, yes, that moan was almost pitch-perfect. Pete shuddered, an involuntarily hum that soon turned voluntary when Patrick jerked off the bed. Pete clamped one hand around Patrick's hip, pushing him back down; the other hand gripped the base of Patrick's cock, working in counterpoint to Pete's mouth.

He pulled off, ignoring Patrick's groan, and crawled up the bed. He carefully balanced himself above Patrick, moving away when he thrust upwards, avoiding any friction. He nuzzled Patrick's neck, biting sharply at his clavicle before capturing his mouth, kissing desperately as he relented and lowered his hips. His cock rubbed against Patrick's and _oh,_ Patrick made the sweetest noise against Pete's mouth before they broke away, Pete's thigh between Patrick's and both of them staring, wanting, _needing,_ scarcely able to believe that they were here, they were together, they were doing this. Patrick grinned crookedly and raised his head, lips almost touching Pete's ear. "De profundis clamo ad te, Domine," he whispered, and Pete came with a moan, burying his face in Patrick's neck, still grinding desperately until he felt Patrick shudder and come hotwet _god_ against him, sinking his teeth into Pete's shoulder just where the thorns started to curve.

Pete only just managed to roll off of Patrick before sprawling bonelessly beside him. He grinned over when he could think again, and forced his mouth to open. "God, Patrick."

Patrick grinned back. "I'm guessing that's a good thing?"

Pete closed his eyes, still barely coherent. "Four years. Four years, and this. Yes, that's a good thing."

Suddenly, Patrick's eyes were wide open. " _Four years?_ " He looked skeptically at Pete. "What, since the last time you had sex, or..."

Pete snorted. "Are we really gonna talk about this now?" He sighed. "Four years. I hadn't come in four years."

Patrick sat up. "That's horrible! You didn't even jack off or anything?"

" _Seminary._ " Pete rolled his eyes. "'Sides, it would've been too hard to censor my thoughts. I was there to get _away_ from the gay, remember?"

Patrick shook his head, lying back down and curling up to Pete. "That's _horrible._ " He grinned slowly, running a hand over Pete's chest. "You have a lot of time to make up for..." He raised himself slightly, ducking his head to lick the collar of thorns from Pete's shoulder to the center of his chest. "...don't you think?"

Pete shuddered, already half-hard, and pulled Patrick down, attacking his mouth. This time it was Patrick who pulled back, panting, and grinned darkly before crawling down the bed.

He looked sharply at Pete. "If you choke me, I will hurt you." Before Pete had a chance to respond, he closed his hand around Pete's cock and took the head into his mouth.

Pete groaned, fists clenched at his sides, barely stopping himself from bucking up as Patrick swirled his tongue experimentally and lowered his head slightly before stopping. He pulled off, flicked his tongue across the head, and dove, taking it in as far as he could. Being sixteen and without practice, this wasn't very far, but he didn't hear Pete complaining. In fact, most of what he heard couldn't even be translated into words. Pete thrust up slightly and Patrick coughed and pulled back, eyes watering.

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, and smirked. "Told you." He lowered his head slowly, waiting until Pete met his eyes to bite his thigh. Pete's mouth dropped open as his head dropped back, and Patrick chuckled. "Didn't think that'd stop you."

He ran his tongue up the length of Pete's cock, dropping one hand to his own and gripping. He used his other hand to push Pete's hips down, pinning them to the bed, and ducked, engulfing Pete's cock again, not bothering with techniques, just sucking. He stroked himself, harder, faster, his moans muffled by Pete's cock. He started humming, deliberately, in time with his strokes and the pulses of his mouth and _Oh_ , he could feel Pete trembling under his hand, fighting himself not to thrust, could hear Pete's whispers, just barely, over the blood rushing in his ears. "God, Patrick, oh God, ohpleaseohyesoh _GOD!_ " The last word came out in a groan and a rush as Patrick swallowed desperately, wincing at the taste but doing his best. His hand quickened on his cock, rhythm faltering as he shuddered, moaned, and came.

When he could breathe, he crawled back up the bed, kissing Pete's cheek and closing his eyes. They stayed that way, draped over each other, until Patrick woke up an hour later. He didn't know what had woken him up, but he slid down and made damn sure he wasn't the only one awake.

Pete awoke with a start, Patrick's mouth around his cock and wow; there were definitely worse ways to wake up. He'd have to try this one more often. Somewhere along the way Patrick had gotten a finger into his ass, and Pete had managed not to notice until he crooked it, at which point he thought he might actually die. "Patrick, shit, oh God," he moaned. "Oh God, fuck me, please."

He realised what he'd said just after he said it, but didn't take it back. He was a little shocked to realise it, but it was true: he wanted Patrick to fuck him. If he was going to do this – and it seemed that he was – he wasn't going to leave it halfway.

Patrick pulled his mouth off Pete's cock, but didn't move his hand. "Are you sure?"

His eyes were dark, and Pete appreciated the effort that was clearly going into not jumping him then and there. He nodded. "I'm sure."

Patrick sat up, and Pete arched up against the loss of sensation, trying not to whine and possibly failing, just a bit. Patrick smirked. "I don't guess you have a condom, huh?"

Pete laughed desperately. "Not so much, sorry."

Patrick nodded solemnly, biting his lip. "That's OK, I might have one."

Pete raised an eyebrow at Patrick's back as he slid off the bed and rummaged through his pockets. "You 'might'?"

Patrick turned back, wallet in hand, just in time to catch Pete's expression. "Shut up, it's not like I _planned_ for this. You were the one who decided that jumping me on a hilltop was a good idea."

Pete felt a stab of guilt, but Patrick was back on the bed and kissing him before it could get very far. "Hey." Patrick shook his head at him. "Don't do that. You don't get to feel guilty about this. I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be, and neither would you."

Pete shook his head, but smiled, and Patrick rifled through his wallet. "I know I put one in here about a year ago, the question is, did I– hah!" He pulled the condom out of a hidden compartment and grinned at Pete. "Score one for teenage over-preparation."

He slapped the wallet down on the bedside table and padded over to the sink to see if there was any lotion they could use. He felt a little embarrassed to be walking around naked, but when he looked back over his shoulder Pete was giving him a look of such open adoration and lust that his self-image issues just seemed ridiculous.

He found the lotion – thank god for predictable motels – and turned back. He knelt on the end of the bed, taking a moment to stare at Pete. "So you're sure about this, right?" He wasn't sure he could stop himself from going through with it anyway, but he was damn sure going to try if Pete decided he wanted to wait. He wasn't _that_ bad of a person.

"Patrick," Pete's voice was tight, "if you don't fuck me very soon, I may actually die. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?"

Patrick grinned darkly. "OK, then. Just making sure."

\----

The next day was a Wednesday, which meant Pete had to be at the Church by noon, but no way was Patrick going to school. He called Joe, whose mom had already called the school (and Patrick's dad) with an excuse about sleepovers and contagions. Patrick promised to buy her flowers for Mother's Day Then, he and Pete went to IHOP.

Pete had the common sense not to put his collar back on until after breakfast, but the waitress gave them a few odd looks nevertheless. Patrick supposed that was just a natural result of staring sappily at another guy across pancakes, but he didn't really care.

Patrick kept resisting the urge to pinch himself and Pete kept resisting the urge to run away and become a monk, but they got through breakfast without making out on the table, so they both counted it as a win.

Even if Patrick really would have liked to see the waitress's face.

Pete drove them back to town, dropping Patrick off at the comic shop before heading to the church. Just before he let Patrick out of the car, he leaned over and kissed him, once, quickly. Patrick shook his head fondly and darted out of the car before he started making out with a priest just down the street from a church.

Patrick had a few hours to kill before Joe could pick him up, so he spent an hour at the comic shop before going to the drugstore next door and buying a notebook. He was going to get this down in music if it was the last thing he ever wrote.

He had filled ten pages with musical notations by the time Joe showed up and honked him out of his focus. He quickly closed the notebook, thanked the shop owner for letting him sit and buy nothing for two hours, and slid into Joe's car.

Joe rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna make you a deal, OK? You're not gonna tell me what happened and I'm not gonna make fun of you until the next insane thing you do. That's just something I don't need to think about."

Patrick laughed. "Yeah, fair enough. You'd just end up covering your ears and shouting at me anyway."

"Don't think that means we're not gonna talk about this." Joe pointed at Patrick. "I'm not exactly OK with this, and we need to have a _conversation._ Just not about last night, that's all."

Patrick nodded. He'd figured something like that would happen eventually. "Yeah, sure. Hurry up, though! I need to get to your house and look sick in case Elisa decides she cares enough to check up on me."

Later that day, when Pete was back at the rectory and sure that Father Anderson wasn't in the house, he pulled out his journal. He turned the first empty page and tried to think of something he could write, but after half an hour he still had nothing. Finally, he closed his eyes and scribbled the first thing that came to mind:

_it's an amazing relief  
the morning you wake up and realize you are just as shitty of a person as they all thought._

i laughed out loud.

~***~

Patrick didn't miss choir practice that week.

He was good while he was singing, of course – he looked straight ahead and didn't give any indication that he wanted to jump the choir director. But as soon as everyone had left and they were safely ensconced in the basement, anything was fair game.

Pete always made sure to take his collar off before they started anything, though. Patrick pouted, but that was one thing Pete wouldn't give up. He may have condemned himself to Hell (or at least excommunication), but he wasn't going to sully the uniform of the Church while he was at it.

For all they could barely keep from jumping each other, though, they still talked almost as much as they had Before. It's just that, After, it was Patrick doing his homework and Pete rewarding him for correct answers.

One month, Patrick's theology (by which the school clearly meant 'indoctrination') class decided that Latin was a good idea. Luckily, Patrick had always been good at roots and prefixes and the like, so he didn't struggle as much as some of his classmates, but he still arranged to be at the church every day after school so Pete could help him.

There were weekly tests, but only the last one was cumulative, so Patrick didn't worry much. But then he got one phrase that he just could _not_ translate, and not even the online Latin translators could help him. "Light shines on the angels' arm(ament)s." Arms, armaments, weapons, no matter what Patrick tried, he couldn't make the possessor and possessed agree. The closest he had ever managed was "Lumen lucet in arma angelus", but Pete yelled at him for that.

"Arma angelus doesn't work! The agreement still isn't right, what are they teaching you?" Pete could be alarmingly enthusiastic about Latin, Patrick thought. Not that he could blame him, exactly. He'd probably like it a lot more if he didn't have to conjugate it.

"Fine, so what's it supposed to be?"

Pete shook his head. "I'm not doing your homework for you, figure it out yourself!"

Patrick lowered his eyelashes and pouted. "Come on, just a hint?"

"…You are not a fair person, Patrick Stump." Pete crossed his arms. "Fine. One hint, but that's all. If you insist on using online translators, at least put the apostrophe in the right place!"

Patrick studied his paper. "…Apostrophe, apostrophe." He looked up. "What?"

Pete made an exasperated noise and sat down next to Patrick, grabbing the pencil. "Light shines on the angels' armaments, right? You haven't been pluralising 'angel'! It should be plural _and_ possessive, not _just_ possessive, that's basic _English_ grammar!"

Patrick peered at Pete, a little concerned, but looked at the paper. "…Oh, _oh!_ The armaments of the multitudes, not just one! So it would be…" he rifled through the book, "Arma angelorum?"

"Yes!" Pete threw his arms up in a victory sign, and Patrick took the opportunity to hug him. Pete chuckled, lowering his arms and putting them around Patrick.

"Mmm," Patrick muttered into Pete's side. "Thanks for putting up with me and my complete lack of Latin skills."

"Heh, not a _complete_ lack." Pete smirked. "You just can't conjugate worth anything!"

"But I make up for it in other ways, right?" Patrick looked up at Pete, who smiled and kissed him quickly.

"Yes, lots of other ways. But not right now." He disentangled himself from Patrick. "You need to work on your Latin so you don't fail! It seems fairly likely anyway, since they're apparently not _teaching_ you, but at least try."

Patrick rolled his eyes and huffed an exaggerated sigh, but sat up, letting go of Pete. "Fine. But when I pass the test, I expect you to make it up to me."

Pete winked. "Always."

With that incentive, both Pete and Patrick fully expected Patrick to ace the final text. And he did – almost.

"Are you kidding me?" Pete didn't know whether to be mad or amused. He settled for shaking his head and giving Patrick back the paper.

"Hey, it's one mistake. One! Out of fifty short-answers! I think that's pretty good, honestly."

"Yeah, but." Pete laughed. "Arma angelus, Patrick? Really?"

"Oh, shut up." Patrick whipped the paper at Pete. "I passed anyway, didn't I? Didn't we say something about you making it up to me?"

Pete caught Patrick's wrist and pulled him closer. "Yes, I think we did."

\---

Pete's vegan straightedge drummer friend Andy came to visit him, once. Patrick knew it would be easier just to think of him as "Andy", but it was so much more fun to think of him the way he'd been described. And, indeed, his veganism couldn't have been more obvious than at a church cookout.

Pete called Patrick over as Andy stood awkwardly, trying in vain to find something he could eat. "Andy, this is Patrick. He's the star choirboy I told you about. Patrick, you remember me telling you about Andy?"

"Oh yeah." Patrick could have sworn Andy's expression had tightened as they were introduced. Had Pete told him—but what did it matter even if he had? Nothing was going to change what they had together, especially not a man who lived half the country away. He smiled politely. "Nice to meet you."

Patrick made his excuses and left quickly, not wanting to interrupt the friends' conversation.

Andy noticed Pete looking after Patrick, and shook his head. "How old is he, again?"

Pete looked back, his smile fading. "Sixteen. Don't start this again, OK?"

"I'm just concerned that you're throwing your life away on someone who isn't even legal, that's all."

"You! Of all people! Weren't you the one who wrote your thesis on how –"

Andy sighed. "Yes, they're puritanical and ridiculous. That's not what I'm talking about!" He shook his head again, and sat down on a bench. "I'm not worried about his age. He's plenty old enough to make his own decisions, no matter what the state says. But that's just it – the state calls him a minor, and if he wanted to, he could work with that."

Pete narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Just that – look, what if you guys have a fight and he decides he really wants to hurt you? It'd be too easy to get you sent away."

Pete started to protest, but Andy interrupted. " _Or,_ OK, because I'm sure he's a good person and wouldn't do that, what if you get found out some other way? _Especially_ with everything the Catholic Church has been through lately. Even _if_ you don't have charges filed against you – which is a pretty big if – you'll still be sent away and most likely never see him again."

Pete sighed and sat down next to Andy. "So what do you want me to do? I'm not gonna end it over the risk of getting caught, because he wouldn't understand. And we've pretty much established that his age doesn't matter. I'm not-" He stopped until Mrs. Miller had passed. "I'm not with him _because_ he's underage, I'm with him in spite of it. At least tell me you know that."

Andy was shocked. "Of course! Dude, if I thought it was something like that, I wouldn't even be bothering trying to help you. If anything, I'd be trying to help _him._ " He shook his head. "You're a good person, Pete. You just get into situations you can't get out of."

Pete grinned. "That's the fun of it, though." His grin remained, and only someone who knew him as well as Andy did would have been able to see the way his eyes sharpened, and not from happiness. "I know. I do. But I- I'm not even thinking about that when I'm with him. I'm just there, and he's there, and everything- " Finally he looked as conflicted as he felt. "I thought God was calling me to the ministry. I thought that's why I had those feelings in the first place. But what if- what if He was just telling me that that's the way I am?" He resisted the urge to rest his head on Andy's shoulder, only because they were in public. "The way I feel about Patrick? It's how I used to feel about God. Only- _more,_ if that makes any sense. I just don't know. I honestly don't."

Andy stood up, pulling Pete with him. "Give it some thought. I think you do know, you just don't want to admit it." He hugged Pete, quickly but with feeling, and stepped away. "I have to go. You know my phone's always on if you need to talk. About anything."

"I know." Pete smiled. "Thanks."

Andy nodded, and turned to leave, stopping only once on his way out to tell Patrick it had been nice to meet him. Patrick turned and gave Pete an odd look, but Pete just grinned.

Ryan saw the grin and tightened her lips. She had to do something.

\---

That Sunday, Ryan dragged Brendon to church with her. Ordinarily he wouldn't have been allowed, under any circumstances, but his parents were so happy that he finally seemed to have a girl he actually liked that they were being a lot more lenient. Ryan rolled her eyes at their reasoning (she wasn't an idiot, and still kept Brendon far away from Spencer), but didn't correct them. She had a plan.

After Mass (during which she made Brendon sit a reasonable distance away from her so people wouldn't think she was cheating on Spencer), she stayed in the sanctuary and explained to Brendon exactly what he was supposed to do. To wit: nothing.

"You just let me talk at you for a bit while Father Anderson is passing, OK? Don't say anything, don't do anything, just stand there."

Brendon was understandably confused, but nodded anyway.

Ryan heard the talking die down outside, which meant Father Anderson would be coming back in soon. She spun to put her back against the wall, and tugged Brendon's arm until he was standing in front of her.

"How much do we really know about Deacon Wentz anyway?" She kept an ear out for Father Anderson – she had to time this just right. "I mean, was he transferred here for any particular reason? Did he do something bad? It's not like the Catholic Church is terribly trustworthy these days."

Father Anderson entered the sanctuary, and Ryan skipped ahead in her planned monologue. "Besides, Deacon Wentz and Patrick Stump are awfully close, aren't they? It's kind of weird!"

Brendon stared at her. She had deliberately spoken louder than she normally would have, so she knew Father Anderson had to have heard her, but he just continued back to the sacristy. She huffed a sigh and hurried out of the church. She knew her parents would be looking for her.

Brendon followed quickly. "Ryan, how could you say that? Now that priest is gonna think Patrick and that Deacon are having an affair or something!"

Ryan spun to face him. "Exactly. I want him gone."

"…Which 'him'?"

"Either! Both! Between that choir nonsense and Patrick's schedule, they're conspiring to drive me out of this congregation, and I won't have it!"

She turned, spotted her parents, and walked over to them, leaving Brendon staring at her in disbelief.

\---

Father Anderson had heard what the Ross girl had said, but he tried to ignore it. Patrick was the best addition to the choir they'd had in a long time, and no one had complained about Deacon Wentz, in this congregation or at his seminary.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from watching, paying extra attention just to prove her wrong. He liked Ryan well enough, but she was clearly mistaken in this case. What he found instead was that she might actually have been on to something.

When Patrick was an acolyte, Deacon Wentz seemed to glance at him more often than at anyone else on the chancel. Not that there was anything wrong with glancing, as a rule, but when Patrick seemed to be glancing _back?_ That was a problem.

Then there was the issue of communion. Father Anderson couldn't have explained himself, but somehow when Deacon Wentz served Patrick communion it seemed like they were… _flirting._ Something about the kneeling and cupped hands, which were normal to Father Anderson by now, looked somehow wrong when they were doing it.

After three services worth of growing suspicion, Father Anderson resorted to desperate measures. While Deacon Wentz was at the church with the choir (and how had he never thought about how odd it was that Patrick stayed so long after practices?), he rifled through the drawers in the small desk next to his bed until he found his journal.

He hesitated before opening it, but he resolved that, if his suspicions turned out to be baseless, he would go to confession right away. He flipped through the pages until he got to the ones that were dated within the past month, and started reading.

\---

A few days later, Patrick was at Joe's house, fiddling with the chords for the song they sill hadn't finished, when Joe's mom came in with the cordless phone. "Patrick? It's for you."

He shrugged at Joe's questioning look before putting the guitar down and taking the phone. "Hello?" Pause. "Yeah, hi, what's up? Do I need to come home?" He mouthed _parents_ to Joe, who rolled his eyes. "The what? Why? Uh, sure, just a moment." He held the phone to his chest. "Joe, can you drive me to the church?"

Joe peered at him. "…Why?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "I dunno, but Dad seems pretty insistent."

"Yeah, sure. I mean, we're not getting anywhere with this, anyway."

Patrick put the phone back to his ear. "Yeah, I'll be right there. Where are you, in the rectory? OK. Yeah, see you then." He hung up, confused, and turned to Joe. "OK, I have no idea what's going on, sorry."

Joe shook his head. "Who knows, man. They're insane anyway, it's probably easier not to question them."

Patrick left his notebook on the bed, figuring he'd be back later anyway, and they left.

Joe dropped Patrick off at the church, but didn't leave right away. "You want me to wait around? How long d'you think this is gonna take?"

Patrick sighed. "Man, I have no idea. I don't even know what's going on. I guess they'll probably take me home if whatever it is lasts too long, so can I just call you if it's not too late?"

"Yeah, course!" Joe scoffed. "What, like I have anything better to do than hang out with you? Get real."

Patrick grinned and saluted before heading up the stairs.

When he opened the door to the main meeting room in the rectory, the first thing he saw was Pete, staring at the table. Then he opened the door wider, and there was Elisa, who was glaring at Pete and clutching Dave's arm. Across from Elisa was Father Anderson, who looked like he was struggling to keep his face blank. Patrick edged into the room and sat down a few seats down from Pete.

"…What's going on?" Had they been found out somehow? How? They'd been so careful! He looked to his dad, but David refused to maintain eye contact.

Finally, Father Anderson cleared his throat. "Patrick, we have some questions we'd–"

Elisa interrupted him. "Patrick, are you and this deacon in a…" she struggled with her wording, but Patrick knew what was coming. " _relationship?_ " She spat the word out like a curse.

"What?" Patrick called on all his skills as a semi-professional bullshitter not to let his face give him away. "Of course not! Why would you even think that?"

Father Anderson leaned forward. "So you're saying that you and Deacon Wentz have never had a relationship beyond one of Deacon and parishoner?"

Patrick did his best to look taken aback. "Well, no, we're friends, but nothing beyond that! Where are you getting this?"

Finally Pete raised his head and looked at Patrick. Patrick was shocked by the hunted look in his eyes, but knew he couldn't help without giving everything away.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, Patrick." Father Anderson sounded like every word was being forced out of his mouth with pliers, but he continued. "Are you and Deacon Wentz–"

"No!" Patrick burst out, doing a remarkable impersonation of an indignant person, he thought. "We're nothing more than friends! Can you _stop_ this, now?"

"Patrick," Pete croaked, surprising Patrick with his voice. He sighed. "I've already confessed."

"You've what?"

"I confessed. They know." Pete shook his head, his eyes pleading with Patrick. "They know."

Patrick nodded, resigned. "OK." He leaned back in his chair. "Fine, so what now?" He addressed his father. "Are you gonna kick me out now? What's the point of all this?"

"Patrick," Dave avoided his son's eyes. "We're not here to punish you. We know you've been taken advantage of, and we just want to help you."

"Excuse me?" Patrick couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice. "Taken _advantage_ of? That's completely ridiculous! It was all my idea in the first place!"

"You know, I wouldn't put it past him, either," Elisa sneered, dropping her husband's arm.

"Oh, and what's the supposed to mean?"

"Just that I'm surprised I never realised you were a fag along with everything else that's wrong with you." They were glaring at each other now, both of them startled by Father Anderson's voice.

"Mrs. Stump, there's no need to bring personal insults into this. This is an inquiry, nothing more."

Patrick held his hand up. "I'm sorry, Father Anderson, but calling me gay isn't exactly an insult." He turned back to Elisa. "Do you really think that bothers me? Of _course_ I'm gay! That's not the issue here!"

"Oh, then tell me what the issue is, please. That you were lying to us when you said you were staying here after practice so you could do your homework? That you were having an _affair_ with a _priest?_ " Her voice got louder with every word. "There are a lot of issues I can think of, and don't think brushing that one aside will make this less of a problem!"

Pete looked up. "Actually, I'm just a Deacon-"

"And _you!_ " Elisa whirled on him. "We ought to press statutory rape charges against you for what you did to our son."

"Oh, shut up!" Patrick was standing up now, practically vibrating with anger. "I am not your son, and you don't get to act like you suddenly give a shit about what I do!"

"You're right," Elisa sneered. "You're not my son, and I'm glad of it. If I'd known what I was getting into with you, I would have made sure you stayed in Chicago with your mother."

"Yeah, well, I wish you had!" Patrick knew that was hardly the best comeback in the world, but he was too angry to think straight. He deliberately pushed his chair back and walked over to Pete, who looked up at him as if he was afraid of what Patrick might do. It was that look, more than anything else, that finished it.

"Pete…" He leaned down so that their foreheads were touching. "I'm so sorry."

Pete shook his head and leaned back. "You don't have anything to be sorry about. I should have been a better person."

"No!" Patrick shook his head frantically. "You're a good person, you're a wonderful person, this is all my fault."

"Patrick just stop." Patrick had almost forgotten his father was there until he spoke up. "You're clearly identifying with your abuser, and we need to focus on making this better rather than prolonging the suffering."

"My– Dad, haven't you been listening? He's not my _abuser!_ It was my idea in the first place! If anything, I corrupted him!"

"Patrick, if you keep this up we're going to have to punish you until you admit the truth. I'm just warning you so you know."

"Keep _what_ up? There's nothing being kept up! I'm defending Pete because you're _hounding_ him and he hasn't done anything wrong!"

"Actually, Patrick," Father Anderson broke in, "whether or not it was consensual, the laws of New Jersey clearly state that what he did counts as statutory rape, seeing as you're underage. And even if you weren't, he still broke his vows of chastity, so yes, I'm sorry to say he _did_ do something wrong."

Patrick deflated, and sank into a chair. "So what's going to happen to him?"

David glared at him. "Shouldn't you be more concerned about what's going to happen to you?"

"No, Dad, I shouldn't. Because right now all I can think of is that he's going to get sent away, and nothing you can do to me is worse than keeping me from seeing him."

"To answer your question, Patrick," Father Anderson spoke up before Patrick and his father actually burst into flame from the force of each other's glares, "Pete has agreed to forego his final vows, renounce his deaconship, and leave the diocese."

"So I was right." Patrick tightened his jaw. "He is getting sent away."

"It's far from 'getting sent away', Patrick. He agreed completely."

"Yeah, but what would have happened if he hadn't?" Father Anderson didn't answer, and Patrick nodded. "I thought so."

David pushed back his chair and stood up. "Right, we're leaving now. And we are going to have a long talk when we get home, Patrick."

Patrick knew perfectly well that the "long talk" would consist if him zoning out and maybe nodding occasionally as his father talked at him, but he had the decency to _look_ nervous. He stood up and nodded, nearly as resigned as he was acting.

Father Anderson stood up as well, to shake David and Elisa's hands and thank them for being so understanding, and Patrick took advantage of their distraction to crouch down and kiss Pete one last time.

At least, he tried.

He wasn't going to make out with him or anything – just a kiss on the cheek – but Pete ducked his head away and Patrick ended up with his mouth in Pete's hair. He closed his eyes, briefly, to keep from crying, and stood up.

"I'm sorry." One last apology, and then he walked away.

He looked over his shoulder, quickly before the door closed behind him, but Pete was still staring at the table. Patrick had never seen him to lost, not even in the park that night. That, more than anything else that had happened, was what broke Patrick. He didn't look back after that, or ahead. Only down.

\---

Life, at least as Patrick knew it, was effectively over.

He was transferred from Queen Of Peace to North Arlington High, and even then his Dad insisted on driving him rather than letting him take the bus "like a normal person, Dad, seriously." He wasn't allowed to visit Joe anymore, or even call him except on weekends while either David or Elisa was at home to "supervise". Luckily, he'd had the foresight to back up most of his files before they thought to confiscate his laptop.

Elisa and his father switched congregations, but Patrick wasn't allowed to go. Not that that was much of a punishment, no matter how much Elisa raved about Father Pelissier, but it also meant he wasn't allowed to be in the choir anymore, and that stung. He tried to compensate by writing music while they were gone, but he couldn't stand the lyrics he came up with.

He knew for a fact that his father would have sent him to therapy in an instant, except that Elisa kept a stranglehold on the finances, and she didn't want to waste money on her degenerate gay disgrace of a stepson. That was one thing in his favour, at least.

Making his pain a little easier to bear was the fact that the music teacher at NAH was one of the most amazing people Patrick had ever met. Her name was Mrs. Ballato. She had a full sleeve tattoo, and a tendency to wear sleeveless shirts along with skirts and combat boots. And, OK, Patrick was gay. He wasn't even a little attracted to girls, and he never had been. But he was pretty sure that if Pete didn't exist, he might be straight for Mrs. Ballato.

The one other bright spot, and one that neither his father nor Elisa seemed to have noticed, was that the computers at NAH didn't have nearly as many filters as those at QOP. That, added to the fact that Patrick had quickly made friends with the librarian, meant that he had very nearly unlimited computer access while he was at school.

The librarian, Mr. Way, was alarmingly skinny with awesome glasses and hair that could best be called "interesting", but he knew how to get around the fact that the school server had technically blocked proxies, so he was Patrick's favourite. He even let Patrick eat his lunch in the library, as long as he didn't spill anything on the keyboard.

One day, they were hanging out at the checkout desk during a particularly slow lunch period, and Mr. Way (who'd told Patrick to call him Mikey, but that took some getting used to) asked Patrick where he'd transferred from, anyway?

Patrick told him, and Mikey winced. "Seriously? Dude, my brother's boyfriend went there. Good for you for getting out!"

Patrick tried not to stare. "Your brother's boyfriend?"

Mikey narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. Problem?"

Patrick laughed, shaking his head. "No, no problem. Trust me. That just– that's great. Really." Mikey gave him an odd look, but Patrick just grinned. Mikey shook his head. "You're a weird kid, Stump."

"Yeah, I know."

\---

That Christmas was one of the worst Patrick had ever had. He was pretty sure it was worse than the one right after his parents decided to separate, because this time he didn't like _anyone_ in the house. He stayed in his room, emerging only to eat a few bites of whatever his dad had decided was appropriate for a vegetarian on one of the most meat-loving holidays of the year. Mostly, he stared at his ceiling and wished he were anywhere but where he was. Specifically, he wished he were wherever Pete was, but failing that, Chicago would do.

Joe came over at around noon, to give Patrick his present and hang out for a while. Naturally, they weren't allowed to be alone in any given room (because apparently Patrick's dad didn't trust him not to start having gay sex on the couch with his _straight best friend_ if given the opportunity), so they didn't talk much, and Patrick wasn't able to open Joe's present until that night. Still, it was the first time he'd seen Joe since being dropped off at the church that day, and talking on the phone once a week just wasn't sufficient, so he was glad of even the limited time.

Elisa coughed when Patrick went to hug Joe, but Joe shot her a dirty look and hugged Patrick even harder. Patrick had never been more grateful for his friend.

After dinner, during which Patrick mostly stared at his plate and refused to say grace, he went back to his room to open Joe's present. It was three packets of staff paper. Patrick managed not to break down again, but it took effort.

\---

With Mikey's help, Patrick managed to get himself scheduled for Library Science his senior year. It wasn't the most interesting of classes, but it allowed him to spend two hours every day in the library, rather than half an hour, so he loved it.

Joe's parents petitioned for him to be allowed to sit out the religion class, and, to everyone's surprise, they were successful. Whether the administration was used to that sort of request and filed it as routine, or whether it was the first such complaint they'd ever gotten an panicked, it resulted in Joe having a free period during Patrick's library science class.

All of which wouldn't have mattered, except for one small thing: somehow, Joe had gotten around the blocks on the Queen of Peace server and had set up a Google Talk account. Since it didn't require a download, that meant that he and Patrick could talk to each other every day, instead of once a week with supervison.

Patrick thought about it once, and was a little surprised at the effort they'd put into contacting each other. He shrugged. What else were they going to do? It wasn't like school was actually a priority.

The following exchange has been translated from chat format and netspeak into dialogue, for the benefit of the reader. You're very welcome.

"They're at a different church, even?"

"Yeah, it's ridiculous. I'm not even allowed to go, what do they think'll happen?"

"Just so we're clear, we've been over how they're insane, right?"

"I think we may have mentioned that once or twice, yes."

"Good, then. Just making sure."

"Hey, to change the topic, guess what?"

"Oh god, what now?"

"Oh, shut up. I might have a link to Pete!"

"Oh!" Joe sat up in the computer chair, then slouched down again so as not to call the attention of the librarian, who was much less awesome than Patrick's seemed to be. "That's great, what is it?"

"Did I ever tell you about Andy?"

"Was he the drummer?"

"Yeah! I just thought, you know, maybe if I found him he'd know where Pete is, so I can find _him._ "

"Hmm. Do you know anything about him that isn't a first name? Because that alone might be hard to track."

Patrick rolled his eyes at the screen. "I'm trying to remember his last name, asshole. Would that help?"

"It might, yeah."

"Hurley! That's what it was. Like the clothing."

"Kay, Andy Hurley? Gimme a minute."

Joe, unbeknownst to almost everyone except Patrick, was pretty much a computer genius. Had he been gifted with superpowers, he almost certainly would have been a technopath. This had very little practical application, but it came in handy when one of his friends was trying to track down a missing Deacon. Not that that happened terribly often, you understand.

Regardless, Joe messaged Patrick back within two minutes, with a link to a blurry image of someone drumming.

"Is this him?"

Patrick studied the picture. It was in black and white, but there… yes! That was definitely the same tattoo Andy had. No one else Patrick had ever seen had that creepy face on their shoulder.

"That's him! You rule, seriously. What's it say about him?"

"Andy Hurley, drummer for the Chicago Hardcore band Racetraitor… what the hell? Born in Milwaukee."

Patrick tried not to be impatient, he really did. He knew that without Joe, he'd have next to no hope of finding Pete at all, let alone quickly. But, really, how important did Joe think some weirdly-named band was to his search? Unless… "Wait. Who else was in the band? Anyone I'd know?"

Joe rifled through the files. "Huh!"

"What, what?"

"He wasn't, like, a founding member or anything, but apparently Pete filled in on bass sometimes!"

Patrick barely resisted punching the air. "So where is Andy now? Can you find that?"

"Can I find it? Excuse me? Who do you think you're talking to, here?" Joe shook his head at the screen and opened a new window, shifting slightly in his chair. What he was about to do wasn't exactly legal, and he didn't want the librarian seeing him.

Thirty seconds later, he had the answer. "He's back in Milwaukee now, or he was last time he had a bank account. Which it says here had money put into it last week, so I'm guessing this one's current."

Patrick shook his head, amazed. "You're a genius, man. I guess I'd be insulting you if I asked if you could find the address?"

"You would, yeah. Already found." Joe sent Andy's address over the airwaves, marveling at the lengths Patrick was willing to go to just to find one man. He'd known Patrick was serious at the time, but this was something else.

Patrick turned to the middle of his notebook and scribbled the address, blending it with his notes (class and music) so it would be less obvious if his dad "accidentally" dug through his backpack again.

"Thanks, man, you're a godsend. Shit, there's a class coming in, I have to set up the laptops. Bye!" He signed off and hurried to the back room, wheeling out the laptop cart and counting in his head to make sure there were enough.

He nodded to Mr. Toro as he unlocked the cart. He couldn't get over how much more... interesting the teachers were here. Mr. Toro had more hair than Patrick had ever seen on one person's head, and he tended to use guitar to teach the Canterbury Tales. Between him and Mrs. Bellato, Patrick was occasionally genuinely grateful he'd been taken out of Queen Of Peace.

OK, if he were honest with himself, the lack of Joe was actually the only reason he _wasn't_ grateful. Patrick shook his head. He didn't have time to waste debating the relative merits of his schools. He had a Pete to find.

\---

Patrick had always been determined to move back to Chicago as soon as possible, but after the breakthrough with Andy he started _planning_. He applied to DePaul, Northwestern, and a handful of other Chicago schools, focusing on the music departments. He may have been desperately chasing someone across the country, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to do what he wanted with his life.

He badgered Mikey into letting him use the library phone to call his mom, with whom he hadn't spoken since a three-minute phone call on Christmas Eve. She jumped at the chance to help him escape (her word, but Patrick wasn't arguing) from his dad, and all but insisted that he live with her when he came back home.

He emailed her a brief (not to mention censored) account of The Thing With Pete, to clear up any misunderstandings that might have been caused by his dad's insane ranting about how the whole thing was her fault. The email was so he wouldn't have to hear her voice when she rescinded her approval of his moving-to-Chciago plan and left him stranded in Jersey, and he told her as much. He didn't actually expect her to disown him, but he was still surprised when her responding email called him an idiot and informed him in no uncertain terms that if he thought she was the sort of person who would judge him for having feelings he couldn't help, he'd clearly been around his father for too long with no positive influences.

He emailed back with one word. _Thanks._

He got into almost all of the schools he'd applied to, but he chose the Northwestern School of Music. It had been his first choice, and with a name like that, how could he turn it down?

Patrick packed up everything that mattered to him in the week between finals and graduation. There wasn't much. He did rifle through his dad's closet one day while no one was home, and triumphantly reclaimed his laptop. If his dad noticed, he never said anything.

His dad and Elisa came to his graduation, but Patrick suspected that was more because they had to drive him there than out of any pride. Their stony silence on the ride to the school was worth it, though, just for their expressions when they saw Patrick's mother. She'd told Patrick she'd be there, but she hadn't told him she'd be coming in the car she'd bought him as a graduation present, apparently just to make his dad look bad.

As soon as the ceremony was over, she handed Patrick the keys and they drove to his dad's house to pick up his stuff. They were due back in Chicago that night.

\---

Once the danger of discovery was gone, Patrick copied Andy's address onto an index card and tacked it to his door. He'd talked to his mom about his options, and she agreed that the best thing to do would be to go up to Wisconsin over Labor Day weekend.

So Patrick did.

He didn't bring anything but the index card and mapquested directions, both of which were on the passenger's seat. He got to Andy's house at around noon, and sat outside for nearly half an hour getting up the nerve to ring the bell and hoping Andy didn't think he was some sort of freak.

It seemed to take forever for Andy to come to the door, but when he did the look he gave Patrick was not friendly.

"Um, hi," Patrick gave a little wave. "I don't know if you remember me, we met in Jersey once-"

"I remember you," Andy cut him off. "You'd better come inside." He turned around and walked into the living room, leaving Patrick to close the door and follow him.

Patrick wasn't sure what he could do to convince Andy that he wasn't the horrible person he appeared to think he was, but he'd long ago made up his mind to do whatever it took. There were two chairs in the living room, and he sat at the edge of the one not occupied by Andy. Andy sighed and leaned forward.

"To begin with, why don't you tell me what you think you'll accomplish by coming here?"

Patrick hadn't expected Andy to sound so much like a shrink, but rallied. "I want to know where Pete is."

Andy nodded grimly. "Why?"

"Why?" Patrick laughed. "You know about us, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"I know about what you _were_ , yes. I don't know what you _are._ "

"Neither do I." Patrick shook his head slowly. "That's why I have to find him. I need to know if he– if I–" He sighed. "The thing is, I'm not even sure of what we were. That's what I need to know. What we were, and what we can be. If anything."

"So if I tell you where he is, what will you do?"

"I'll find him." Patrick looked up, eyes blazing. "I'll find him, and I'll apologise and I'll tell him that if he doesn't– if he never–" He hung his head again. "I'll leave him alone, if that's what he wants. That's what you're really asking, isn't it? I'm not gonna harass him or anything. I'd never do that. I just want to aplologise."

"Apologise for what?"

"For not going with him when he left. For not staying when I was told to leave. For– so many things." Patrick quirked a rueful grin. "Mostly for not finding him sooner." He sighed. "I just want to make him happy. And if me staying far away from him will do that, then fine. Tell me. But if not, if there's any chance that I can be there for him, I need to do that."

Andy nodded and stood up. "Would you like something to eat?"

Patrick stared up at him. "What?"

"To eat. Food. Anything? I'd be having lunch now anyway, it's not a problem as long as you don't mind vegan food."

"Yeah, no." Patrick shook his head and stood up, confused. "I mean, I'm vegetarian, so."

Andy smiled, nodding like that had confirmed something for him, and went into the kitchen.

They ate in relative silence, Patrick glancing curiously at Andy now and then. When Andy had put the plates in the dishwasher he turned to Patrick. "He's in Chicago."

Patrick stared.

"He was here, actually, until about six months ago, but he's in Chicago now."

Patrick was still staring. Andy raised an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong?"

Patrick shook his head. "No! No, just. That's where I am, too." He laughed. "It figures, huh?"

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know, just that– it's where we're both from, and now we're both back there." He looked up. "I guess you trust me, then?"

"To be honest, I was convinced as soon as I opened the door. He's dated some crazies, but none of them would have come halfway across the country to find him. Not without an axe, anyway."

Patrick laughed. "I guess it is kinda crazy, huh? It's not like I could help it, though."

Andy nodded. "I know. I'm still not one hundred percent OK with this whole thing, but you make Pete happy, and god knows he could use some happy in his life." He grabbed a bit of scratch paper from the buffet and scribbled something on it. "So, yeah, Chicago. He's back in the hardcore scene, too. Has a new band and everything. Arma Angelus."

Patrick stared. No, he more than stared. He boggled. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

\---

Patrick was back in Glenview in time for dinner, and he looked up Arma Angelus on myspace before going to bed. He still couldn't quite believe that Pete had actually named his hardcore band after a grammar mistake. On second thought, given what Andy had said, he could totally believe it.

Arma wasn't touring, thank god, but there was a list of shows on the site. Small places, five dollar cover plus donations for most of them, which Patrick decided meant that he was supposed to go to as many shows as he could manage.

His homework was disgustingly easy, so it was no problem to have it done before he left. Not that he cared as a general rule, but his mom refused to let him out of the house until he'd done his assignments. She fully supported his search for Pete, but she wasn't going to let him throw away what she called his musical genius just to go to shows.

Patrick was careful. The first night, he stood in the back of the club, just listening. He knew he'd have more fun if he let himself get swept away, but getting swept away was not the goal for the night. He was scouting. Plus, if he got too close to the stage, Pete might see him, and he felt like that might not be the best possible reunion.

Standing back was just as amazing, though. Patrick had figured that the gravel in Pete's voice had come from screaming, but he'd never actually _heard_ Pete scream. He was a little surprised at how raw he sounded, that great noise coming from this tiny man who at one point wanted to be a priest. He left before the show was over, and didn't notice Pete peering from the stage at the back wall, like he'd seen somebody he'd recognised.

The next show was a week later. Patrick promised himself that he would find Pete afterwards, but he was nowhere to be found.

That night, Pete knocked on his roommate's open door. "I think I'm losing it."

Chris glanced up. "Yeah? You say that once a week. What is it now?"

"I'm serious, man." Pete came in and sat down on the mattress. "How much did I tell you about Patrick?"

\---

At the next show, Chris promised to keep and eye out for Patrick so Pete wouldn't have to. Not that he expected that to stop Pete from looking, but at least he wouldn't feel like he _had_ to.

To be honest, he didn't expect to see anyone. Pete had an overactive imagination, and this was probably just another example. Still, why now? Why, a year and a half after leaving Jersey, would he suddenly start hallucinating or whatever he was doing? So he watched the back wall when he could, shaking his head at Pete whenever he was still enough.

Then he saw him. Or someone who looked very much like Pete's description of him, at least. Chris wasn't sure what a sinful mouth was supposed to look like, and he was more than a little surprised that Pete had seemed to mean it as a compliment, but this kid definitely seemed like he had one. Added to the hat and height, he still couldn't be certain, but it was something.

He told Pete, of course, to keep him from thinking he was going insane, but assured him that whoever it was, he probably just _looked_ like Patrick.

Chris wasn't sure they weren't _both_ losing it, seeing some random kid only one of them had ever met, but he kept an eye out at the next show anyway. After all, if this Patrick guy was here to hurt Pete somehow, he'd have a lot of people backing him down. Pete may have gone crazy with that religion stuff for a while, but he was still a hardcore kid at heart. And hardcore kids may have been crazy, but they were nothing if not loyal.

And sure enough, there at the very back of the club was the same kid from the night before. Short, wearing a hat, not overly thin – never having met Patrick, that was the best description Chris had, and he took a chance. As soon as their set ended, he tossed his bass to Jay and bolted off the stage.

At first, he thought the kid had escaped again, but no, there was that trucker hat walking out the door. Chris ran after him, catching up just as he hit the street.

"Hey!" He shouted, fully expecting the kid to run, but he turned, defiant, and Chris was caught off-guard. "Are you Patrick?"

The kid looked startled, but nodded slowly. "How did you know?"

Chris shook his head in disbelief. "You've been at our last four shows. Did you really think Pete wouldn't notice?"

Patrick cringed, then frowned. "Why didn't he say something himself? Does he not want me to be here?"

"He thinks he's going crazy." Chris shook his head and almost sneered. "What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to guilt him into something?"

"No!" Chris was taken aback by the force of the kid's response. "Why would I- no! That's ridiculous!" He glanced at the door of the club. "And can we not talk about this here, maybe?"

Chris snorted. "What, are you afraid Pete'll see you?"

Patrick tightened his lips. "Yes, actually. I'm building up my courage. Now, seriously--"

"Ah, don't worry about it. He's probably already home, he never sticks around after shows." Chris looked back at the door. "But, you know, I'm up for coffee if you feel like proving to me that you're not here to break my best friend's heart _again_."

Patrick looked insulted, but Chris didn't care. "Yes or no? 'Cause if there's not a damn good reason for all this I can just tell him you're--"

"No!" Patrick stepped forward. "OK. Coffee. Now, or-?"

Chris checked his watch. "Nah, shit, I need to get home." He pointed at Patrick. "Get to the show early tomorrow and we'll go somewhere. I know you know where it is." He turned away without waiting to see if Patrick had agreed. It didn't matter if the kid showed up or not. Still, he sort of hoped he would, if only to prove Pete had finally landed someone who actually cared about him.

The next afternoon, Patrick was at the club five hours early. He would have been later, but his mother had gotten sick of him "mooning around the house", and sent him off with an order to "get him back, or stop talking about him." That was the sort of choice Patrick had no problem making. Still, after fifteen minutes he was beginning to wish there was a record store or something near the club, just so he wouldn't feel like an idiot standing there by himself.

Just then, Chris sauntered up. "Wow, you're early."

Patrick tightened his jaw. "Yeah, well, so are you. What was that about coffee?" Chris nodded, and they walked to the nearest coffee shop.

"Now," Chris started, once they had their cups and had sat down. "Why don't you tell me what you're planning to do, and I'll decide if I need to keep you far away from Pete."

Patrick laughed sharply. "Are you asking me about my _intentions?_ " He shook his head. "Man, you Chicago scene guys really take yourselves seriously, don't you? I already got all this from Andy, seriously."

Chris was obviously taken aback. "You talked to Andy?"

"Well, of course! I needed to find out where Pete even was, you know?"

"And Andy told you?"

"After a full-scale interrogation, yeah." Patrick rolled his eyes. "Don't make me repeat everything, please."

"No, no, man, that's OK." Chris pushed back from the table. "Dude, Andy likes you. That's good enough for me." He stood up, taking his cup with him. "Just do me a favour, kay? Stick around tonight. This sneaking around shit? Needs to end."

He turned, but Patrick stood up quickly. "What, tonight?"

Chris turned back. " _Dude._ "

"No, I don't think so! What if he hates me for ruining his life? I can't talk to him yet."

Chris laughed, shaking his head. "If you're this much of a moron, maybe Andy doesn't know as much as he used to. Pete doesn't hate you, don't be an idiot, stick around tonight, and I'm leaving now."

\---

Pete hadn't been much for religion, after he left Jersey. He'd tried, at first, tried going to mass and keeping up with confession, but every time he went near a church he felt like he should burst into flames, and he knew there was too much on his conscience to ever make a full confession, so eventually he stopped bothering.

He still went at Christmas, of course. He'd gone to Midnight Mass every year of his life, and he wasn't going to stop just because it had become torture. If anything, that helped. If he could stand in the back of the church where no one knew him, and no one who did know him could see him, he could remind himself that he didn't deserve to be here, that he was filthy and a sinner and everything else Father Anderson had called him as he packed his bags. He thought of it as his personal penance, to make up in some small way for the confessions he wasn't making.

The fact that the choir loft was directly above where he had to stand to see the chancel was just a bonus. A horrible, torturous bonus that he made himself endure because if he couldn't, what good was he? What use was he to God if he couldn't stand a reminder of his sins?

But for all that, his guilt was really all that remained of the good little Catholic boy he'd once been. Which did nothing at all to explain why he'd gotten the sudden urge to go to confession. He didn't even know what he could say, but for some reason he knew he had to try.

He didn't bother to cross himself as he slipped down the side aisle and into the confessional. Why offend God even more? He couldn't help adopting the typical supplicant pose, though, bowed head and clasped hands. He waited for the priest to slide back the divider.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been..." he paused, trying to calculate, but quickly gave up, "...far too long since my last confession."

He listened carefully for the priest's response, and almost melted with relief when he realised it was Father Bryar. Not that he was exactly friends with any of the priests at this particular parish, but he knew Father Bryar from before he'd been transferred, and he knew he'd be the least likely to judge. Of course, no priest was supposed to judge, but Pete had experienced firsthand what BS that could be when the chips were down.

He cleared his throat and began. He didn't think about how long it would take to tell, or what Father Bryar would think of him, or what exactly he expected to get out of confessing after nearly a year and a half. He couldn't think about any of that, or he would have left, rushed out in the middle of a sentence and never come back. He just let himself talk, explaining about his transfer to Jersey and everything that had happened with Patrick. Before Father Bryar could say anything, he continued, telling him about the distance he'd felt from the Church and how he'd eventually stopped going altogether, stopped bothering or caring, but hadn't stopped feeling guilty.

"And I know that there's nothing I can do to make up for what I've done, for what I _haven't_ done." He smiled sadly, the old words coming back to him, "'I have sinned through my own fault, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do.' In all honestly, I'm not certain I believe there's anyone to make it up to. But I can't live with this guilt any longer.

"It's not that I think what I did was wrong, as a human. I did, but I've gotten past that. But as a Deacon, as an agent of the Church," he shook his head, "I know that wasn't the right path for me, but I still violated those vows, and I was responsible for ruining his life. At least that's what the senior priest told me. Over and over." He felt like he was turning his confession into a therapy session, and reminded himself that this had a point. "I've confessed this before, in bits and pieces, and I've done the assigned penance. Even for the things I don't believe are sins. But even though I believe that God has forgiven me, I haven't forgiven myself." He took a deep breath. "I have committed the sin of pride, for putting my own feelings above the decisions of God. I know that his forgiveness is enough, and I confess that I have not been able to accept that. I will take whatever penenace is assigned to absolve me of this sin, and hopefully then of my guilt."

"What I'm hearing is a genuine desire to be right with the Lord, and a willingness to do whatever it takes to achieve that rightness. Is that accurate?" What Father Bryar had been doing to occupy his time while Pete rambled, Pete had no idea, but it seemed he'd actually been listening.

Pete nodded, turning toward the screen. "Anything."

"Then there is no penance I can assign you. You've already done everything you need to have God forgive you, and you say you believe he has done so. The only thing I can say," here Father Bryar dropped his 'official voice' and leaned toward the screen, "is that maybe the feelings you have aren't guilt for what you did. Maybe they're guilt for not staying when you were made to leave." He straightened up, resuming his pose of officiality. "Go about your daily routine with that in mind. If, after twenty-four hours, you find that your feelings truly are a result of wishing to undo your actions, I will assign you a penence. But if you find that what you really want is to be with him again, you'll know what to do.

"I'm not judging you. There's nothing to judge, by my law or by God's. All I can do is act as a conduit for God's will, and it seems to me that his will is that you make things right with yourself. He's done as much as he's going to. It's your turn now."

Pete stared at the screen, the heavy feeling in his gut replaced by something that might actually have been hope. He nodded. "Thank you, Father. I'll do that."

He left the church a far lighter man than when he had entered, in step and in heart. He still didn't know what to do about the fact that he was apparently going insane, but he headed to the venue knowing that whatever happened, he had done everything he could do to square himself with God. That shouldn't have been a particularly comforting thought, but it was.

\---

That night, Patrick could barely watch the show. His eyes were, as always, focused on Pete jumping around the stage, but he was preoccupied with thoughts of what might happen afterwards. What if Chris couldn't keep Pete from leaving right away? What if Pete didn't want to see him? What if he hated Patrick for ruining his life and getting him exiled from the Church? What if-- and he was determinedly **not going there** , but-- what if Pete just didn't _want_ him? What if what they had in Jersey was just Pete getting his rocks off, and being a really good liar? If Patrick was just a pathetic teenager with a crush, why was he here?

OK, obviously he was here _because_ he was a pathetic teenager with a crush. But what if that was all he was? He didn't know if he could deal with that, and he wasn't at all sure he wanted to risk it.

It wasn't until Arma left the stage that Patrick made up his mind to stay. He made a beeline for a corner, and stayed there until most of the crowd had left; no matter what happened, he was sure he didn't want more people seeing it than absolutely necessary.

True to his word, Chris kept Pete from leaving: stopping him with questions or introducing him to people when he seemed about to head for the door. When there were only a handful of people still in the room Patrick left his corner, walking warily toward where Chris was looking over Pete's shoulder at him. When Patrick was only a few paces away, Chris spoke to Pete, too quietly for anyone else to hear, and pointed at Patrick.

Pete turned around, unsuspecting, and Chris walked away.

A miniature eternity passed as they stared at each other, Patrick terrified that Pete would walk away and Pete honestly terrified that it was a dream. He'd had dreams like this before, where Patrick found him only to tell him he never wanted to see him again. Still, he took a chance.

"Patrick?" Like he wasn't sure it was real, and Patrick couldn't help but smile. It was all he could do not to beam, as Pete walked up to him. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Still, he was a good three feet away, and Patrick was confused. Why wasn't Pete kissing him already? Was he wrong? Did Pete not want him anymore? He looked at Pete warily and said, "I- I'm at Northwestern now."

Pete rolled his eyes. "No, why are you at the _show?_ " Before Patrick could answer, he added, "and why have you been at the last four shows?"

That stopped Patrick, and he knew there was no lying at this point. "I was wondering if-" He bit his lip. "I was hoping, maybe-" He was a little petrified now, because if he was wrong he'd have to spend the next four years of his life avoiding someone who-- but again, he wasn't going there.

He took a deep breath. "I'm here because you are. I don't blame you if you never want to see me again, but I couldn't let you disappear forever without telling you that-" he broke off, because Pete looked like he might scream, or cry, or laugh, or all three.

Pete had spent a year and a half trying to convince himself that this was never going to happen, and now Patrick was _here_ and Patrick was here for _him_ and he threw his arms around him and hugged him fiercely. Patrick quickly put his arms around Pete, and they stayed like that for a beat.

And then Pete was crying. He knew he probably looked ridiculous, but he was happier then he'd ever been in his life, possibly all put together, and he couldn't help it. Then the hug changed and Patrick was comforting Pete, just holding him and letting him get out eighteen months worth of fear and terror and hopelessness.

Finally Pete sniffed and pulled back, and just _looked_ at Patrick for a moment and then they were kissing like their lives depended on it.

Eventually Pete pulled away, resting his forehead against Patrick's. "…hi."

Patrick closed his eyes. "Hi."

Whoever had told him about first kisses had been wrong. _This_ was like coming home.


End file.
